Children Will Play
by Delilah's Soliloquy
Summary: The innocence of childhood can be not recreated by any means currently available. But it can be approached when you share some of those precious, golden moments with your child. Moments from the childhood of your favorite HP characters and their parents.
1. The Practical Princess' Bedtime Story

_A/N: Hello, everyone! I came up with this idea just the other day and it absolutely flooded me with inspiration, so allow me to explain a little. _

_I was re-reading one of my favorite stories--_Mothers_, by the incredibly talented Winterlude--when I came up with this idea. Check it out if you haven't already. This story draws a lot of inspiration from it. I've mentioned in the past that I'm very interested in characters' childhoods--it's like an undiscovered gold mine of opportunities. Each chapter of this story will focus on a different character from the Harry Potter series, sharing a playful moment with a parent (or parental figure). It's all about the innocence of childhood and the way adults sometimes wish they could recapture a bit of it for themselves. Please read the Author's note at the end of this chapter for more details._

_For Winterlude, who inspired this story._

_Disclaimer: I am not J.K. Rowling and I only borrow her incredible creations. I don't own them._

The Practical Princess' Bedtime Story

"Tell me a story, Daddy!"

Warren Granger smiled over the top of his newspaper at his precocious 6-year-old. "Hermione, sweetheart, shouldn't you be asleep already?"

Hermione pouted. "But Daddy, I can't sleep without a story! You always do it best. _Please_?"

Warren knew it was a lost cause at 'please'. He gathered up his newspaper, folded it and left it on the seat of his armchair, following the little girl into her bedroom. He paused in front of her bookshelf, which was positively crammed with dozens of books—picture books, story books, beginning chapter books. Though only six, Hermione was an avid reader and Warren could see that she was very bright. He scanned the books' glossy spines for a title that jumped out at him.

"What kind of story would you like to hear, Hermione?"

The little girl paused, her chin resting on one hand, looking thoughtful in a gesture characteristic of someone much older. "A fairy tale," she said decisively.

Warren obediently pulled a large, hardcover book of beloved fairy tales from the shelf. He shuffled through the pages as Hermione settled herself on the pillows and began, "Once upon a time, there was a prince and a princess, who were very much in love…"

"How did they meet each other?" interrupted Hermione.

"Um, I don't know, dear…at the palace, I suppose. Perhaps at a royal ball?"

Hermione wrinkled her nose. "That sounds boring. I think they should meet at the library."

Warren stared at his daughter for a minute. Only his Hermione would insist that the prince and princess fall in love at a _library_. Warren smiled inwardly. He and his wife always wanted to raise an independent, strong, intelligent daughter and already—at the age of six, no less—she was showing that she would not be content to let herself be put easily into anyone's box.

"Very well. The prince and princess met in the library of the royal university, where they were studying…"

"…magic!" It seemed Hermione was not through tailoring the bedtime story to her liking.

"Magic. The prince wished to marry the princess, but before he could, he was torn away from the kingdom to battle an evil sorcerer, who wished to take over the kingdom. The princess, meanwhile, had to wait for her true love to return—"

He stopped as he saw his daughter shaking her head indignantly. "Yes, dear?"

Hermione's stubborn face was very reminiscent of her mother's. "That's just _dumb_. The princess should go with him."

"Okay, _you_ tell me what happened."

Hermione smiled, her brown eyes sparkling, and launched right into _her_ version of the story.

"The princess went with the prince, because he needed her help. It was a good thing she did, because the evil sorcerer captured the prince and the princess needed to save him. She used everything she learned about magic to fight the evil sorcerer and beat him. Then the princess freed the prince and took him back to her castle."

Warren grinned. "I think I can take it from here. The prince and the princess got married and lived happily ever after—"

"—and she ruled the kingdom for a hundred years! And she was the best queen ever."

"But whatever happened to the prince, sweetheart?"

"The princess helped him get better at magic so that he could beat evil sorcerers all by himself. The end."

"The end, indeed. Good night, Hermione."

"Good night, Daddy. I love you."

As Warren closed the door softly behind him, he felt a warm feeling growing inside. _A take-charge princess, a prince who needed her around, an evil sorcerer and a school of magic…__what__ an imagination_.

"Story time's over, then?" his wife asked, seeing her husband enter the room. As he nodded in the affirmative, she added, "Did she take over the story again?"

"That's some daughter we raised," he replied, jerking his head at the closed bedroom door. "They'll have their hands full with _her_ someday."

"Who will, dear?" asked Mrs. Granger, looking perplexed.

"Everyone. She's no ordinary girl."

His wife smiled warmly. "Well, of course. We didn't raise her to be a helpless, know-nothing kind of girl. She'll be formidable someday."

Warren thought a bit. "She's already pretty formidable. She's my practical princess, and her magic is…knowledge. She can do anything with that mind of hers."

As he picked up his newspaper at last, his wife heard him add, "Perhaps she should become a writer…a school of magic, honestly…"

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A/N: Any thoughts? Please review and let me know! You know, the more feedback I get, the more inspired I am to write...just a thought.

On a related note: So far, I've got ideas for about eleven or twelve different characters, depending on how well they cooperate as I write them. However, I would love to hear your suggestions. Have a character whose childhood moments you can just picture? Drop me a line and let me know! I'm not going to say just yet which characters I've written so far, which I've got in the planning stages and so on, because one of my readers may come up with an even better suggestion!

Hoping to hear from all of you,

Delilah


	2. My White Knight

_Happy Easter, everyone! I decided to go ahead and put up chapter 2, even though I'm still waiting on reviews. I'm really not trying to be stubborn; I just don't want to post too many chapters without getting any kind of feedback, for any of two reasons. One, I want to know what you guys think and two, I'm waiting on suggestions for characters and situations to use. So please, review! It only takes a minute and it does a world of good._

_Anyway, enjoy chapter 2. I had a good time thinking of what a young Draco would do for fun and I hope you like him. Though the older Draco seemed very indulged and spoiled, I got the feeling that Draco's father was rather distant with him. Narcissa, meanwhile, risked everything in the forest--gave up on Voldemort's scheme altogether--just to make sure her son was safe. I thought there was a deeper connection there and I wanted to explore where it started. Because I definately think their bond developed over time; Narcissa doesn't strike me as the type of mother who fell in love with her son at first sight._

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My White Knight

A sudden crash echoed into Narcissa Malfoy's parlor from an open door across the hall. Intrigued, she got to her feet and tiptoed towards the sound of the commotion.

She stood in the doorway of a spacious, sumptuously decorated bedroom. Sunlight streamed in through the wide windows, draped in long, silk curtains that were tied back with silver cords. An ornate four-poster bed sat against the nearest wall and the vast space in front of it was dominated by an antique rug, upon which a child was at play.

The little boy resembled Narcissa in some ways, notably in his shining blond hair, but his pointed, aristocratic features and gray eyes were more in imitation of his father. His current conduct, however, was of a nature Narcissa would never imagine possible from Lucius.

Draco had constructed a castle out of blocks in the middle of the Persian carpet. It was quite a good castle for so young a child, Narcissa thought. He had even taken care to include towers and battlements and numerous defensive features. None of the block-castle's defenses seemed to be holding, though, because it was in a state of siege, being savaged by a ferocious beast.

Draco kneeled before the castle, casually comfortable on the richly carpeted mahogany floor. A toy dragon was clutched in Draco's hand, scaly black against his ivory skin. Its tiny fangs were bared and it flapped its miniature wings as the boy brought his hand down towards the castle's outer walls, clearly making the dragon attack. His siege was accompanied by yells of 'Quick, somebody kill it!' and 'Help! Save us from the dragon!', as well as high-pitched, petrified shrieks and an assortment of noises Narcissa supposed were meant to be issuing from the dragon.

Draco hadn't noticed her standing in the doorway. He was completely absorbed in his game, delight radiating from his pale face. Narcissa wondered if she dared interrupt him and break the spell.

She hesitated for a minute. Surely if she backed out slowly, he wouldn't know she was spying on him. Too late. Draco spotted his mother in the door at last and froze.

"What are you doing, Draco?"

It was not said unkindly, but the words did come out rather stiff and oddly formal. The boy tensed noticeably. _I've scared him. I didn't mean to; I just wanted to talk to him…_

"Just playing, Mother," he responded in a small voice.

"That's a beautiful castle," said Narcissa, moving closer to inspect it. Draco's shoulders seemed to relax; there was a shadow of a grin on his face. There was something about the boy that was rather endearing to her, though Narcissa knew that such feelings had to be a sign of weakness, somehow.

Draco, however, responded with a certain degree of enthusiasm. Narcissa and Lucius had never asked him about his games before. "It belongs to a bad king who hates magic. A powerful wizard sent a dragon to attack the castle and save all the witches and wizards from the bad king and his soldiers."

Narcissa raised an eyebrow. "And what is the dragon's name?" she asked, half-knowing the answer already.

"Draco," said her son, positively beaming with pride now. "He's the strongest, scariest, most powerful dragon in the world and no one can beat him!" he added.

"I'm sure he is," his mother conceded with a small smile. Draco, emboldened by her praise, chose his next words carefully.

"Would you like to play too, Mother?"

Narcissa hesitated again. Her son, heir of the Black and Malfoy families—the greatest, most noble Wizarding dynasties in the country, really—was asking her to play with him. Malfoy ladies did not sit on the floor and help their sons noisily ravage block castles belonging to evil kings. Neither did Blacks. It simply wasn't done.

But the big house was empty and quiet, and the thought occurred to Narcissa that perhaps he, Draco, was as lonely and bored as she was trying so valiantly not to admit she was. She looked at him and, in that moment, saw not the heir of the two greatest Wizarding families alive, but her son—her little boy—who wanted nothing more than to play with his mother. Not because of her wealth or her pureblood lineage, but because he loved her.

Narcissa forgot that she was a Black and a Malfoy. She forgot what was due to her family, to the pureblood order and to her new, elegant silk robes. Today, she was simply a mother—any mother, really—sitting on the floor of her son's bedroom, playing with him and his block castle and his toy dragon.

And even years later, thinking back to that afternoon, both Narcissa and Draco privately thought that _that_ was the day when they first realized that they loved each other not for their family connections or their money, but because they were mother and son, even because they were the only people in the world who would take the time to sit and play with a block castle and a toy dragon, no questions asked and no judgments made. No one else could understand.

In a very small way, Draco had saved Narcissa from a world of expectations and regulations just as surely as she had saved him. _He may think he's the dragon, _she said to herself, _but he's my knight._ They could never control what went on around them, or even what roles they'd someday be expected to play in this great, unfolding drama. But they could control what they did with the time they had. And as long as they remained true to one another, they would make it through.

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_Tell me what you thought in your review! And don't forget, I'm open to any suggestions for characters you want to see and little episodes you'd like me to add. I may even consider doing additional chapters for certain characters is I get a good enough idea to explore. After I add in some other characters, for variety, that is._

_Last reminder--review!_

_Yours, Delilah_


	3. Free Bird

And I'm back, ladies and gentlemen! This time around, I stepped a little outside the circle of Harry's immediate peers to focus on the relationship between our champion, the late, great Cedric Diggory and his dad. Cedric was a pretty special person, and he was obviously (judging by Amos' remarks) his father's pride and joy, and I hope I managed to convey that much in this next chapter.

I would also like to take this opportunity to thank everyone who put this fic on Story Alert and especially my reviewer, Treacherous Darkness, for the awesome feedback. I don't want to start holding chapters hostage, so please review when you read. I know I am guilty as charged of not reviewing sometimes, but it really is encouraging, and it's a great way for you to let me know your ideas and suggestions.

Rant being over, let's get on to the story:

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Free Bird

The man and boy walked out into the early morning stillness side-by-side. The boy had a gleaming, brand-new broomstick over his shoulder, and every few paces he looked up at his father with a cheerful, almost restrained excitement. Whenever he caught the boy surveying the landscape, the father looked down at his son and felt his insides swell with pride.

Cedric was Amos' only son. He was his pride and joy. When Cedric was born, Amos had looked at the tiny person gifted to him from above and swore to himself, at that moment, to raise Cedric to be the very best person he could. Amos and his wife Kate taught Cedric many things. They took him out into the backyard, crouched down in the grass and observed the insects and plants. They went out on day trips, incognito, so he could learn about Muggles. Amos took Cedric up on the roof and taught him the names of the stars and planets, how to tell time by the sun and how to look for the North Star to find his way home. Kate took Cedric into the kitchen and taught him all about different spices and plants and all of their special properties. As she cooked, she taught him to use his instincts to create the perfect mixture, whether he was mixing up the Draught of Living Death or just some chicken noodle soup. And they gave him books.

Books about famous witches and wizards. Books about foreign lands, historic events and strange languages. Books about living creatures, both magical and ordinary. Books about sports and even Muggle schoolbooks (which, his mother said, would give him a good foundation of knowledge and skills for when he went to Hogwarts). So many books!

It wasn't enough for Cedric to have all the knowledge he'd need to go far. No, his parents (his mum especially) stressed that none of it mattered if he turned out to be an unsatisfactory person. And so they taught him the most important lessons of all—lessons on courage, on honesty, on loyalty and respect. Cedric worked hard and grew to be every bit as good as his parents imagined.

Now it was Amos' turn to teach Cedric yet another of those things he needed to know if he was going to grow into the exceptional young man Amos knew him to be. Which led to this quiet, still morning, where father and son walked into the deserted field, broomstick in hand. They stopped in the middle of the field, and the boy turned to face his father.

"What do I do first, Dad?" said Cedric, who could barely contain his excitement. _Flying…at last!_

"All right, son, the first thing you want to do is get a good, firm grip on your broom. Both hands, see. You don't want to slide off. Got it?"

Cedric nodded, climbed onto the broom and held it firmly. His father walked around him, correcting his grip ever so slightly and admiring his form. _He'll be a great Quidditch player someday, just you wait._

"Now what?"

"Okay, now you're gonna lean forward, just a little, to go up in the air. You pull back a bit to stop. Use your hands to turn in the direction you want to go. Now let's see you try…just a _little bit_, Ced!"

Cedric, in his enthusiasm, had already coaxed the broom a good fifteen feet in the air, turned around in a graceful, sweeping arc and looked down at his father's face, half thrilled and half taken aback. He raised a hand to wave and found himself slipping off the broom, which had started to drift to the left. Cedric took it back down to the sound of his father explaining the merits of using pressure from your legs to keep a firm seat on the broom.

They stayed out there for hours, practicing mounting and dismounting the broom, turning in midair, acceleration and changes in altitude. Cedric was a natural, but Amos still made sure his son knew that even the most gifted Quidditch players could use a little coaching here and there. Cedric nodded, drinking in his father's tips and mentally listing all the techniques he wanted to try the next time his father took him out to the open field.

Over dinner, Cedric rhapsodized over his first time flying. Amos told his wife everything he wanted to work on with Cedric and listed each and every one of his strengths on a broom, elaborating on some in particularly loving detail. Mrs. Diggory smiled, thinking to herself how alike her two boys looked when they got on the topic of flying.

As she kissed her son goodnight and tucked him into bed, Kate asked Cedric "Did you have a good time with your father today, son? I know he can be a bit...obsessive at times."

Cedric positively glowed. "It was great, Mum! It was the best feeling I ever had! Being up there in the air, it was like being a bird, I felt so free! I can't wait to go again! When I was flying, I felt like I could do…_anything_!"

Kate pulled the blankets up over her son, smoothed the covers and turned off the bedside lamp. As she made to close the door on the way out, she whispered, "You can do anything, Ced. Never forget that feeling."

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Alright, readers, your turn: what did you think? What would you like to see in future chapters? Tell me in your **review**!

Status update: As of now, I have another chapter pretty much finished and two more in progress. I have another 5 or 6 in the initial planning stages. I have no idea how many chapters to plan for as of yet...about thirteen in all exist in some incarnation (even if that incarnation is the dark recesses of my mind. However, I want to know your ideas...what characters do you have a persistent childhood image of? Let me know...your ideas may be way better than mine (though I'd be honored to write them). Also, I'm back at work starting tomorrow (the Easter holidays being over), so my update schedule may become a bit more sporadic, especially as I run out of already-started chapters and have to get down to some real writing.

Until later, be sure to review!

Yours, Delilah


	4. The Grandmaster's Apprentice

_I'm back, after what seemed like a very long week. I want to thank my reviewers for their encouragement and suggestions--a few of the suggested characters have already been started and I'm starting to plan for others! If anyone comes up with others they'd like to see, I'm open to more suggestions as always._

_This time around, we're venturing into the next generation. Every child wants to see their father as a hero...Rose Weasley is no exception._

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The Grandmaster's Apprentice

"Okay, now have a look at the pieces in front of you."

Rose Weasley sat up straighter in her chair and lowered her gaze to the assorted pieces lined up carefully in their squares on the chess board in front of her. No matter how hard she tried to look purposeful and serious, she couldn't suppress a smile. Finally—after all her begging, her pleading, her _insisting_ that she was old enough to learn—her father was going to teach her to play chess.

Rose loved watching her father as he played chess. He was a real champion; in all her life, Rose couldn't remember him losing a single game. As he played, her dad assumed what Rose and her little brother liked to call his 'chess face': his eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed in concentration, and he bit down ever-so-slightly on his lower lip, almost unconsciously. Rose and Hugo's mother liked to tease their dad that, back in their school days, she could always tell that he wasn't really concentrating in class, because he didn't get 'that look' on his face.

Hermione Weasley was part of the reason Rose knew her father to be a chess champion. Rose was sure her mother had to be one of the smartest people in the world; certainly she was the smartest person Rose had ever met, and yet Hermione still lost pitifully to Ron in every chess match he coaxed her into.

One night, Hermione told her children a thrilling bedtime tale in which a twelve-year-old Ron faced off in the most important chess match of his life. It was a life-or-death situation, played out like a battle with real, larger-than-life stone chessmen that had been transfigured by Professor McGonagall to protect the Sorcerer's Stone. Had he failed, the children's Uncle Harry would never have been able to get to the Stone before the wicked Lord Voldemort used it to regenerate his body, thus returning to terrorize the Wizarding World. Rose had been transfixed as she pictured her dad as a young boy, directing the immense chessmen like troops in battle, finally sacrificing himself so that his side could have the victory. She imagined the look of triumph on his face as Professor Dumbledore awarded him fifty points for "the best played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years." The next day, she asked Ron to teach her how to play.

Ron Weasley took his chess seriously. "When you're a little older, Rosie," he had told his daughter gently. "I still don't think you're old enough to really understand it," was his constant refrain over the years until finally he agreed. And _today_ was that day.

"Okay, Rosie, now before you can play chess, you need to know what all the pieces are and how they can move," Ron began. He sat back in his chair, cracked his fingers expertly, and held up the smallest of the chess pieces. "This one's called a pawn. The whole front row is made up of these guys. They're the smallest and least valuable pieces on the board."

"Kind of like me," quipped Rose. Ron raised his eyebrows.

"That doesn't mean they're unimportant, though. They can only move forward—two spaces on their first go, one space after that. They move forward diagonally to capture. Any pawn that crosses the board entirely can become a rook, a knight, a bishop or a queen—that's called promotion. Only pawns can do that," he added, as Rose's face shined with anticipation. He replaced the pawn and held up another piece.

"This one's called a rook, or a castle, as your mum likes to call it. It can move any number of spaces in a straight line. The piece next to the rook is a knight—see his horse?—and he moves in an 'L' shape—two forward and one sideways, or two sideways and one forward. See?" he added, as the tiny knight demonstrated. Rose nodded, still smiling.

Ron smiled back, indicated the bishop, and continued, "Remember which piece could move any number of spaces in a straight line? Right—the rook," he nodded as Rose pointed at the nearest castle with her finger. "The bishop is similar—he can move any number of spaces as well, but only diagonally." As he spoke, the bishop he placed on the chessboard obliged with a demonstration.

"Who are _they_, then?" asked Rose keenly, indicating the only remaining unidentified pieces. Ron took up one of them. "_This_ is the queen. She's the most powerful piece on the board—kind of like how your mum's the most powerful grown-up in this family," he added, catching Hermione's eye and grinning. Hermione beamed at him. "The queen can move as many spaces as you want, in any direction. Next to her is the king, and this is the most important piece of all. He can only move one space at a time, but you can't let the king get captured, because if you do—checkmate."

"Checkmate?"

"Game's over."

"Ohhh…"

"'Game's over' is right," supplied Hermione. "It's getting late and you need to be in bed."

"Tomorrow night then, right after dinner, you and me will have our very first match," promised Ron, and all disappointment immediately faded from Rose's face. She kissed her parents goodnight and headed towards her bedroom, only to stop with one foot on the first stair.

"Dad?" she asked tentatively.

"Yeah, Rosie?"

"Thanks for teaching me chess. I hope someday I'm a champion like you."

Ron grinned, though he could feel his face growing warm and could only imagine how red it looked. "Well, as long as you didn't inherit your mum's lack of chess skills along with her brains, I say you've got a decent shot at it, with enough practice."

As she walked upstairs to get ready for bed, Rose resolved to practice every single day until she could beat her dad in a game of chess. She might resemble her mother in intellect and somewhat in appearance as well, but Rose was still very much daddy's girl. And as such, she was determined to keep the name 'Weasley' synonymous with chess dominance for at least another generation. After all, neither of her parents would think of backing down from a challenge. It was in her blood.

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_What do you think? Let me know and, as always, please review! Hopefully, it won't be long before next time which I am 85-90% sure will featire Pansy Parkinson, who has been coming along since the very start...slowly, though. Rushing is beneath her, apparently. However, I don't want to guarantee Pansy and then put up someone else (most likely Harry, who's at the halfway point), so I'm just going to suggest that Pansy may be next._

_Yours, as always, Delilah_


	5. Ladies Who Lunch

_I'm back, Potter fans, with the next installment of our favorite (and perhaps in some cases, least favorite) characters' precious childhood moments. I had been planning to do Pansy from the very start; she was one of my first ideas (in the first five, I believe) and when I got a request for a Pansy chapter, I figured I'd better get her up here. I can picture Pansy's mom beign a very proper, ladies-who-lunch kind of pureblood and I could see her trying to instill this type of etiquette in Pansy at a young age. Voila, chapter five! Let me know what your thoughts are. It's a bit different from previous chapters as I can't see Mrs. Parkinson playing with Pansy much at all. _

_The usual disclaimers, of course, apply._

* * *

Ladies Who Lunch

Eleven-year-old Pansy smoothed her robes on her lap in front of her and wondered what to do with her hands. It wouldn't do to rest them on the table, really, so she settled for folding them delicately in her lap. There, now, that should do.

"Pansy, darling, don't fuss with your hands so much, it makes you look awkward and jumpy."

Miranda Parkinson placed her empty teacup daintily on the saucer and eyed her daughter from across the tea table. Pansy sat up straighter under the spotlight-like intensity of her mother's gaze, and Miranda seemed satisfied. She called for tea and almost immediately, a steaming teapot was carried in on a silver tray by a house-elf, accompanied by a plate of delectable-looking tea cakes and finger sandwiches.

Pansy watched attentively as her mother poured the scalding tea gracefully into the two witches' cups, then waited for it to cool before taking a sip. As she added milk and sugar, her mother spoke up.

"The proper way to conduct an afternoon tea is a very important lesson for all well-bred, pureblood witches to learn, Pansy." She rested her teaspoon on the edge of her saucer and continued, "Someday, when you are married to a fine, upstanding young wizard, it will be your responsibility to entertain his guests with the grace, poise and charm befitting a young lady of your standing."

Pansy nodded, imitating her mother's poised mannerisms. "Did _your_ mother teach you all of these things, Mother?" she asked.

"Naturally," responded Miranda, arching her perfectly-groomed eyebrows and tracing the rim of her teacup with an elegantly manicured finger. "These are the things every mother should teach a daughter. Well, every _respectable_ mother," she added, with a slight scowl. She seemed to be deep in thought for a moment before her eyes snapped back to Pansy, who was selecting a cake.

"Pansy, do you know what is going to happen to you in September?"

The girl looked startled. Of _course_ she knew; she'd had little else on her mind for the past few months. However, she did her best to sound as though this particular bit of information _hadn't_ been drilled into her every day for goodness-_knows_-how-long.

"I'm going to Hogwarts, Mother."

_Foolish, naïve girl, _thought Miranda. "Yes, child, you're going to Hogwarts. But that is not what I meant. When you arrive there, you will soon find that not all wizards are like us. There will be filthy Mudbloods there, and half-bloods, which are little better. You must be very mindful of the company you keep. Even children from other pureblood families are not necessarily good choices." Images of impoverished, freckle-faced Weasleys and peculiar Longbottoms flooded her mind. The very idea of her daughter mixing with _those sorts_ was definitely upsetting. "Do you understand, Pansy?"

Pansy nodded. She knew what was expected of her. Since she was a very little girl and she had laid on her stomach on the floor of her father's study, poring over the photo albums showing an imperious, haughty-looking young woman posing formally in front of a marble fireplace, playing a shining grand piano, reading a leather-bound book on a stone patio bench. Her mother. She had been the perfect pureblood young lady and Pansy was determined to be the same.

Miranda worried about Pansy sometimes. She was agreeable, certainly; she clearly tried to do everything Miranda taught her, but she worried nevertheless. Sometimes, she thought she caught something in Pansy's eye—doubts, maybe. As if Pansy wondered if she could live up to her mother's expectations. And if she didn't, Miranda didn't know what she would do. Pansy was a reflection on her. On the whole family. Something had to be done.

"Pansy," Miranda said, and Pansy dropped her third tea cake on the plate. "Come with me."

Pansy's bedroom had striped silk wallpaper, brass lamps and a closet larger than some people's sitting rooms. Pansy watched as Miranda brought out an ornately patterned box tied with silk cord and placed it on Pansy's bed. Pansy hesitated a moment, then climbed up onto the satin duvet. Miranda lifted the cover.

Pansy reached into the box and sifted through the box. A lace-trimmed wedding veil, a stack of journals, a dried-out bouquet of flowers tied with a faded ribbon, opal-studded haircombs, embroidery silks. With a glance at her mother, Pansy lifted the veil gingerly out of the box and placed it on her head, trailing the silk delicately over her hair.

"It isn't always easy, Pansy" Miranda said, in a tone that clearly meant business. "We have indulged you, yes; we've given you anything you've ever wanted. We've denied you nothing at all. But soon it will be your turn to do your duty to the family. You must remember when you go to Hogwarts that you will represent our family's honor. You must always conduct yourself in a way befitting our family's name and your own pure blood. And when the time comes, you will be required to marry—an upstanding, pureblood young man—and carry on the Parkinson line."

The girl twirled in the floor-length, gilded mirror; a swirl of lilac robes and antique lace. She imagined herself, gliding down the aisle on her father's arm—he looking very distinguished in stately black robes; she a young lady already, clad in satin and lace. She imagined her mother in the audience—would she cry? Pansy thought not; her mother was far too dignified for such nonsense—and the young man at the very front, ahead of her. His face was an obscured blur. What did it matter who he was, really?

As Pansy whirled around to face her mother's steely serious eyes, she wondered for the briefest of moments if this was what she really wanted. Didn't she want the chance to meet _him_, to fall in love like the princesses in the storybooks her governess had read her as a little girl?

"Do you understand, darling? Do I have your word?"

She looked around. The luxury, the clothes the servants, the society lunches with Wizarding aristocracy, the prestige…

"Yes, Mother. I understand. I will, I promise you."

"Good girl. Your father and I will see you for dinner at seven in the formal dining room."

Miranda was gone in a swirl of silk and perfume, much like she had been throughout most of Pansy's childhood. Pansy summoned a grin. _Someday, that elegant lady will be me,_ she thought. _I'll have everything I'll ever want. They'll all envy me, someday. We are the ones that matter, just like Mother said. And at Hogwarts, they'll all see it. I'll see to that._

* * *

_So, what did you think? Please review and let me know! Also, as per usual, if you have any requests or interesting ideas, please tell me, as eye contact is often essential to Legilimency and I am not currently in your vicinity. Time and space matter in magic, everyone. _

_For our next chapter, I believe I will be featuring none other than the Boy-Who-Lived. As Harry was only a little over a year old when his parents died, you can imagine that he will ne quite young in his chapter, so the perspective will shift between Harry and the parent (no, I won't spoil it) he shares his childhood moment with. _

_Stay tuned in the near future for a trip to the Burrow. Which Weasley offspring will I be featuring? Submit your reviews and keep checking in to find out (sometime around chapter 7, I believe)._

_By the way, I'm not sure how many more chapters I'll get done this week. There was a death in the family and I've been spending most of my time at the funeral home as of late. I'll be grateful when all of this is over (the bereavement, not the updates). _

_Reviews make me happy._

_Yours, Delilah_


	6. The Legacy

_I'm back again, keeping up a streak of semi-regular updates. I just want to thank everyone for their kind wishes. A special thank-you goes out to TooManyHobbiesToList123, RedCloakedMaiden and Treacherous Darkness for their reviews of chapter 5. As for everybody else out there: please review! I really do take into avvount what you're thinking, but as I said, eye contact is often essential to Legilimency, so unless you tell me, I have no way of knowing what's on your mind._

_Harry's a bit too young to have a coherent point of view in this chapter, so in a way, it's as much about Lily as it is about Harry. I do hope you enjoy it; if not, there's some fun at the Burrow coming up in the next chapter. We also have Seamus to look forward to in the near future, as per request of TooManyHobbiesToList123 (thanks for the heads up!)._

_I will spare you all the 'please review' note at the end. Just try it. You'll like it, I'm sure._

_The usual disclaimers apply._

_Cheers, Delilah_

* * *

The Legacy

The play park was deserted. It was a scorching, dry summer's day. No one was there to notice the young woman with long, red hair, walking into the park as though she did this every day, with a black-haired baby in her arms. She paused at the gate, looking around as though expecting to meet someone there, but seemed to shake herself mentally and proceeded right into the park. The dry grass and gravel crunched underfoot as her baby jabbered nonsensically.

"Look, Harry," she said in a low, soothing voice, as the baby seemed agitated. "Look…this is where Mummy grew up. This is where I used to play."

The boy gurgled at her. _What kind of reaction was I hoping for?_ thought Lily. _Of course he doesn't care; he's only a year old!_

The little boy squirmed, clearly bored with his mother's aimless gazes around the deserted landscape. Lily thought of putting him down, but spied the slide a few feet away and made up her mind. "Want to slide, sweetheart?"

She walked to the slide, placed Harry on it, reached up and guided her son's body down the slide at a pace much too slow to excite anyone over the age of two or three. Harry, however, squealed with delight. Lily beamed and slid her son down the slide again. _I forgot just how much fun this place was. Petunia and I could spend hours here…_

Picking up the squealing baby, Lily spotted the old swingset. The image of a small, red-haired girl soaring gracefully through the sky to the ground with a satisfying crunch of gravel flooded her mind, and she smiled. _It's as deserted as it was…__that__ day. Does anyone else ever play here? Were we three the only ones?_

"Shall we swing for a little bit, Harry?" she asked. "Ma!" he cooed. Lily took that for assent, picked the boy up, and settled him on her lap in one of the swings.

She rocked the pair of them back and forth gently, tipping her head back to feel the warmth of the sun in her face. Harry snuggled in to his mother's shoulder. He could smell her shampoo—a sweet, comforting aroma that made him feel safe. Even in this unfamiliar play park, he knew everything was okay. Mummy was here.

This place was special to Mummy, Harry could tell. Even if he didn't understand why, he saw her smiling that big smile that made the corners of her eyes go all crinkly. She didn't do that smile all the time. Only for _really_ special reasons. Harry loved that smile. It made him feel all fuzzy inside, like warm milk and a lullaby before bed.

It was pretty easy to see why this place was special, though. It _was_ a play park, and play parks _were_ fun. Simple, really. So simple a baby could understand it.

Why, then, was Mummy crying? Smiling, but crying at the same time. As Harry leaned back against Lily on the swing, he could feel her body shudder with suppressed sobs and when he looked around, he could see the tears. Mummies _don't_ cry. They have the tissues and the kisses and the kind words when their babies cry. Who takes care of Mummy when she cries? And why would she do so at a play park, on a swing? Grownups sure were strange.

_Lily, don't! Mummy said you're not allowed!_

_Tuney, watch what I can do!_

Lily placed Harry on the ground, where he busied himself with some gravel at her feet. She wiped her eyes on the back of her hand, wondering why a simple playground would have this effect on her. How could a simple swing feel like a painful bereavement?

_You have loads of magic. I was watching you…_

_That's what you are…freaks!_

Harry froze with a pebble in his hand. It was a nice pebble, smooth as a marble with swirly designs on it, but he didn't feel right. He wanted to make sure his Mummy was okay. She sure was acting funny as she got up and pulled Harry to his feet, pebble and all.

_Does it matter, being Muggle-born?_

_No…no, it doesn't matter._

"We'll come back another day, Harry," she promised as she walked slowly, leading the little boy on his unsteady legs. "We'll come back all the time. You need to know where you come from."

She scooped up the little boy into her arms at the park's gate, rounded a corner into a deserted alley, and was gone. No one saw her go.

*****

"But where _were_ you all afternoon?"

"I had something to do. Something important."

"But Lily, if it was that important, you should have told me. We could have done it together."

Lily smiled a little. "I know, James, it's just…I wanted Harry to know where he came from. Where _I_ came from…"

Memories jostled for the spotlight in Lily's brain: two girls buying ice creams from a vendor by the entrance to the play park. A small girl drawing pictures in the gravel with a twig while her sister talked to the neighbor girls. A red-haired girl and a black-haired boy, sitting under the park's biggest tree in what appeared to be serious discussion. An assortment of children having a tree-climbing contest. This was what she had to give Harry. This was her legacy. Not riches. Not fame. Not honor. The play park, and the memories, and the happy feeling that swelled inside her like a balloon. _This will all be his…_


	7. Big Brother Is Always Watching

_Hello, Potter fans. Delilah here._

_Only one review for my last chapter? Really, readers? That makes me kind of sad. Please drop me a line about this chapter, if you'd like to hear more. Even 'Hello. I see you're still here, are you?' will do (though it's not ideal). _

_Continuing with members of the Trio--I promised you Weasleys, and you're getting Weasleys. I just hope you like 'em. I think Ron in particular came out pretty endearing._

_Who is this chapter focusing on? Well, it was originally slated for Percy, the would-be Minister of Magic, but Ron inserted himself in the proceedings we see a lot of Ron here as well. So take it for what you will, and enjoy it with my best wishes. _

* * *

Big Brother Is Always Watching

Arthur Weasley stepped through his front door to scenes of chaos. His wife, Molly, was in the kitchen, directing her wand at various pots and pans that were in the midst of preparing dinner while alternately scolding his 6-year-old twin sons, Fred and George, for some transgression involving a pair of garden shears, the family owl Errol, and a sign that said 'Fred and George's Barber Shop'.

Molly's shrieks had been audible from the front gate, so, deciding she had the situation well enough under control, Arthur proceeded into the living room, where he hoped to finish the _Evening Prophet_ before dinner. At least, that was his plan.

He found his path into the living room blocked by a small table—the kind that doubles as a tray, used to serve breakfast in bed. Sitting at the table on a cushion on the floor was his 3-year-old daughter, Ginny. She was coloring contentedly on a sheaf of parchment. A lopsided, hand-lettered sign perched on her table read 'RECEPTION' in large, childish letters, the 'R' written backwards.

"Ginny? How about a hug for Daddy?"

The little girl pointed to her parchment and shook her head. "First you got to write your name here."

Chuckling, Arthur decided to play along. Obviously Ginny had embarked on some new game, probably after her brothers—tired of her tagging after them—shooed her away. He signed his name.

"Daddy!" came a shriek from an adjoining room. A freckle-faced boy only a bit older than Ginny came in. He was carrying a stack of parchment and a crayon, and he looked positively distraught.

"What's wrong, Ronnie?" he asked, bending over to try and console his son, who looked close to tears.

Ron's lower lip jutted out in frustration. "I can't count past seventeen," he wailed. "I get up to seventeen and I don't know what number is next." It was as though he had just announced his guilt in a matter meriting lifetime imprisonment in Azkaban.

"That's okay, Ron, you've got time to learn what comes next," said Arthur, struggling to maintain a straight face. Ron, however, was not so easily comforted.

"Percy says I can't count all the wizards in the world if I can't count past seventeen," he explained, with the air of someone pointing out the blatantly obvious.

Arthur was completely nonplussed. "And why would you need to count all the wizards in the world, son?" he asked the still-apprehensive Ron, trying with all his might to see where on Earth this conversation has heading. At her 'reception desk', Ginny scribbled along, ignoring every detail of the proceedings occurring just feet away from her.

Ron heaved an impressive sigh. "Because," he began, "Percy said the Ministry of Magic has to know everything about all the wizards in the world, and it's my job to count them _and _I have to finish it before dinner!" Ron's tone verged in wailing at this point. The expression on his face was nearly identical to the ones Arthur saw on many Ministry interns years older than Ron.

"Did you take up a summer job at the Ministry without telling me, Ronnie?" joked Arthur. Ron shook his head, without abandoning his deer-in-the-headlights expression for one minute.

At that moment, who should enter the room but Percy. He was wearing what Arthur recognized to be a set of his own work robes, the sleeves rolled up several times to accommodate the much shorter arms of his eight-year-old son. Percy had a quill tucked behind one ear and a rather disgruntled expression on his face as he walked into the room.

"Weasley!" he called out, and Ron tensed visibly. "Have you got those numbers for me yet? The Department of International People Counting needs to know exactly how many wizards there are in the world by dinnertime, or else no more cookie breaks for the rest of the month!"

"What's all this?" asked Arthur genially, and Percy turned to address him.

"Hello, Arthur. How are things going down in the Muggle Stuff Office?"

Arthur's manner turned strictly professional. "Very well, Minister. We had a nasty case involving a book you could never stop reading, and another one with a tea kettle with supernatural powers but other than that, everything's running very smoothly." He glanced at Ron, who was clearly attempting to count the world's wizarding population on the fingers of his left hand while scratching his head with his right. "I actually just came up here because I needed a word with your assistant, Weasley. I need his help with something—it's something only he can do. I hope you don't mind, Minister," added Arthur in tones of respectful deference.

Percy sighed and said, "Fine. I'll have my secretary do it," and turned to leave. A glance at Ginny showed Arthur that Percy would not be getting his census any time soon, especially as he had just entrusted it to a three-year old. He led Ron out the door, sparing another glance at Molly, who had the twins sitting on hard kitchen chairs, back to back, braiding long coils of yarn to see whose was longest as she set the table.

Arthur and Ron didn't stop until they had settled themselves under a tree in the back garden. The sun was just beginning to set, but already sky was tinged a vivid orangey red. Arthur breathed in the early evening air, thick with the smell of honeysuckle and warm grass, and looked down at Ron, who was trying to coax a caterpillar onto his finger.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Ron?"

"Thanks. I really didn't want to count all the wizards in the world. Playing Ministry of Magic is really boring, anyway."

"No problem, son."

At that moment, with his back against the gnarled tree trunk, his arm around his youngest son and the setting sun painting the sky behind the Burrow a stunning array of colors, Arthur felt completely at peace for the first time since arriving home.

* * *

_Well, there's the first of our Weasley fixes. Don't worry, Weasley fans, I plan on returning to the Burrow again; next time we visit we'll be hearing from Fred and George! However, that won't be in the next chapter. No, instead I'll be answering a request by featuring half-blood Irishman Seamus Finnegan. My family's Irish-American, so I feel a certain bond with Seamus. I really hope you enjoyed this chapter and will tune in next time. In the meantime, please review. I have some really good stuff planned for you guys, but there's no sense continuing if no one's interested. Just a thought._

_All my best,_

_Delilah_


	8. Double Agent

_Here we are, friends, at chapter 8 already, and--especially if readers send me some more requests--with no clear stopping point in sight. I love striking out aimlessly, don't you? Well, at least in writing I do; in actual 'striking out' I like to have some sort of plan. And idiot-proof directions. Which is sad considering that where I live, the streets are mostly numbered and set in a very logical grid pattern, so I'm rather spoiled. No wonder I get lost so easily when I venture out of this pre-established comfort zone._

_Ah, yes, in case I never mentioned it before, I'm from New York City. Brooklyn, to be precise, though I work in the Bronx. I feel like I'm getting to know my regular reviewers and I don't even know where they're writing from, so now it's your turn. Where are all of you from? My curiosity has finally gotten the better of me._

_Speaking of reviewers--5 last chapter! That's a new record! You chould have seen me; I was all smiles. I don't know what did it--my sad little monologue or the fact that chapter 7 featured the terminally cute Weasley brood. Don't worry, readers, they'll be making a return appearance. So to hasten the time between, review! Let's see if we can overshoot 5 reviews per chapter. And as always, send me your requests--I'm always on the lookout for new chapter ideas. I'd like to keep this story going as long as possible and I have a harder time getting inside certain characters' heads (usually, the ones I can't relate to as well). Your suggestions give me a starting point, an image to pursue. And sometimes they give me character ideas I never even considered._

_This chapter's for my five chapter 7 reviewers and for TooManyHobbiesToList, who suggested Seamus. From a proud Irish-American, Erin Go Braugh._

* * *

Double Agent

Seamus Finnegan loved playing with his father. Patrick Finnegan would often come home from work to kick around the football with his son, or otherwise take him to a match whenever he could get a pair of tickets. There they were, father and son, each enjoying a cold fizzy drink and a thrilling match-up. Sometimes at night, rather than turning on the television or settling down with the newspaper, Patrick would challenge Seamus to a card game or a round of checkers, and the two would play for hours before Mrs. Finnegan called for Seamus to head off to bed.

When Seamus was small, Patrick used to read him bedtime stories. Ghost stories were his favorites, tales of banshees wailing the impending death of sons off at war and maidens awaiting the return of their long-gone lovers; tales of valiant princes escaping the dungeons of dread castles to rally an army and fight their foes bravely, but perish in the fight; tales of witches brewing potions for desperate mortals, craving magic solutions to their mundane problems, only to have the magic turn on them horribly.

Seamus had always listened to his father's stories with wide eyes, sometimes yanking the bedcovers up to his chin and taking refuge behind them during especially scary parts. When Patrick tucked him in with a kiss on the forehead, he had sought reassurance that they were, indeed, just stories.

"Are you sure the banshees won't come for me once I close my eyes, Da?"

"For the last time, Seamus, just because the house has stone walls, it does _not_ mean you're sleeping in a dungeon, boy!"

"It's just water, right? Not a potion that'll make me sleep forever like in the story?"

Of course, they weren't all 'just stories'. Seamus had discovered at a young age that some things—like banshees and potions and witches—were real. Very real.

Mrs. Finnegan never accompanied her husband and son on their outings. She stayed at home, engaging herself in one strange housekeeping task or another. In fact, whenever they went out, Patrick Finnegan never mentioned his wife at all. It was only at home that the three of them sat around the dinner table, Patrick's arm resting around the back of his wife's chair as she laughed at one of his jokes.

Seamus' mother was a witch—a real, live, honest-to-God witch. She cast spells and brewed potions and flew on a broomstick and everything. And that made her very different from his father.

*****

Seamus Finnegan loved playing with his mother. Kathleen Finnegan would sometimes take her son shopping with her, and unlike most children being dragged on an endless string of tedious errands, Seamus loved to grip her arm right below her swinging leather handbag, feel the rush as he Apparated alongside her and slammed with an awful finality into the ground, miles from where they'd started. It never got old.

He loved to stroll alongside her, peeking up over the counter from her elbow at the apothecary's as she stocked up on the strange and wonderful ingredients she needed for her potions. When she bought new robes, he would hide inside the racks and jump out to surprise her. She would laugh and gently reprimand him before setting off to Florean Fortescue's to buy two ice cream sundaes—hers always strawberry; his, mint.

Seamus' mother played with him at home during the day. By night, they sat on the hearth rug before the peat fire, playing Gobstones or Exploding Snap. By day, Kathleen took him out into fields and meadows filled with clover and shamrocks and taught him to ride a broomstick. Seamus zipped after her, keen to catch up, vowing to someday play Quidditch for Ireland with his mother there, dressed in green and cheering him in the front row.

Kathleen also took her son to Quidditch matches. They were both devoted fans of the Kenmare Kestrels and Seamus loved nothing better than sitting high up in the stands, cheering their team on to victory, his mother beside him waving a Kestrels pennant in her hand. They'd head home a couple of hours later, hoarse from shouting and sometimes numb with cold, but looking as though they'd had the time of their lives.

"Did you see him feint, Ma? Just like that? I've never seen anyone fly so fast!"

"Ah, Seamus, someday it'll be you out there, son."

"If only Da was here to see that last goal!"

Patrick Finnegan never accompanied his wife and son on these outings, and whenever he was in the wizarding world, Seamus refrained from mentioning him. It was only at home that Seamus would toss his father a Chocolate Frog that Kathleen had picked up in the course of her errands and giggle as he watched his mother try to teach him the names of all the famous wizards featured on the cards.

*****

Seamus Finnegan loved playing with his parents, but sometimes he like he was living two lives. One was that of Seamus the Muggle, Patrick's boy, who played football and rode his bicycle and sang in the church choir. The other was that of Seamus the wizard, Kathleen's boy, who played Quidditch and rode his broomstick and was fast learning to build a faily accurate replica of Hogwarts castle out of Exploding Snap cards before it imploded and caught flame. He was a double agent, living in two worlds but fully belonging to neither. Whenever he was in one, he was forbidden to speak of the other. This, after all, was the Finnegan's secret. And above all, Seamus loved keeping secrets. The only thing better was sharing them. Perhaps someday he could.

* * *

_What did you think? Do tell! I hope we can break last chapter's record of 5 reviews--records were made to be broken, after all!_

_In the tradition of an end-of-chapter preview, I'll give you an idea of what's coming next...or at least, what I'm planning on releasing next. These characters have minds and wills of their own._

_I originally wanted to post Neville in chapter 9--right after Seamus. However, I'm having a little trouble getting the voice just right. He's about half done. In place of Neville, if he isn't finished soon, we'll take the largest leap back in time so far to visit Lily and Petunia Evans. Originally, it was just going to be Lily, but Petunia worked her way into what could fairly be assessed as a supporting role. Also featuring Mrs. Evans, straight from her limited engagement in my one-shot "The Miracle of Friendship" and the always-fascinating Half-Blood Prince. Yes, it's all the old familar faces, together again. Tune in soon and keep the reviews coming. You know you want to._

_Always yours,_

_Delilah_


	9. Adventures in Espionage

_Hello, everyone, Delilah here. _

_A bone to pick--after the enthusiastic 5-review reply to chapter 7, I only got 2 for chapter 8. Poor, poor Seamus!_

_I don't know whether to beg or threaten. I did a lot of threatening with my students today, so I'll stick largely with begging. I was going to sit on this chapter until my review count improved, but I didn't know if that would work. Be advised that my next chapter will wait until I get some reviews. Let's see--my record for a chapter in this story so far is 5, 8 people have the story on Story Alert and 2 readers in this fandom have me on Author Alert, so let's say a minimum of 8 reviews. **Eight reviews before chapter 10--it's not too much to ask.**_

_If it means anything, my birthday's next week. Consider your review an early birthday gift. For the birthday girl, who's starting to get depressed about her age (which is something, as I'm only in my 20s)._

_By the way, if I haven't thanked my reviewers, the people who subscibed to this story or added it to favorites and the many anonymous readers out there, **thank you all for the intrest you've shown so far! You guys are awesome!**_

_We met up with Lily in Chapter 6 as she bequeathed her legacy to Harry—not riches, but her fond childhood memories. I touched on Lily and Petunia's childhood friendships (no, not with each other, sadly) in my one-shot _The Miracle of Friendship, _but I feel like I barely scratched the surface. Lily--and her childhood associates Petunia and Sev, by extension--provide a lot to think about. Today, we return to the source of many of those fond childhood memories: the Evans home and all those old familiar faces. Sometimes, Mrs. Mary Evans fancied herself a spy specializing in child development. _

_Longest chapter yet, you guys--enjoy! We've c__rossed the 10,000 word threshold!_

_Dedicated to _TooManyHobbiesToList _and_ Bookworm41_, for their kind reviews. Suggestions have been noted, guys, and added to my 'Chapter Ideas' notebook, where they can germinate and develop for a while..._

_

* * *

_Adventures in Espionage

Mary Evans opened the oven door, pushed in the tray of oatmeal-and-chocolate-chip cookies and set her timer. Drawing off her oven mitts and setting them on the tiled countertop, she looked around for the signs of children. It was unnaturally quiet, considering that she had multiple children under the age of thirteen lurking _somewhere_ in the house. _Ah, well…the smell of the cookies will lure them out. It works every time…_

Come to think of it, why hadn't they emerged to help her bake? Usually, whenever she decided to make some kind of dessert item, be it a cake, or cookies, or anything for that matter, her daughters Petunia and Lily would not only insist on helping; they would fight over who got to crack the eggs, who got to lick the spoon, and the like. Their absence was cause for suspicion.

Keeping an ear trained for the sound of the kitchen timer, Mary proceeded down a short hallway and into the living room. No kids. Not even a schoolbag abandoned on the sofa across from a left-on television set.

Refusing to let her puzzlement get the better of her, Mary turned to her next best option. She headed back up the hall, turning into a doorway to her left. She was standing on the threshold of a shadowy girls' bedroom, lit only by the natural light streaming in from the window. The walls, after many arguments, secret agreements, subtly veiled threat and furious tears, had been painted a pale blue with glistening white trim. This was compromise on both girls' parts, as Petunia had wanted palest pink and Lily had wanted the exact vivid emerald green of her eyes. Two twin beds, covered in matching patchwork quilts, were pushed up against opposite walls, separated by an oak nightstand upon which rested a lamp, a bedside book and a book of crossword puzzles. The floorspace in the center was occupied by a blue shag rug, on which was sprawled a skinny girl of about eleven.

Petunia's blonde hair was tied back in a neat ponytail. She was surrounded by an assortment of debris—paper scraps, bits of ribbon, scissors and paste. A cardboard box lay to her side, its cover pushed askew to reveal a variety of paper dolls. One of the dolls rested in Petunia's left hand; her right was otherwise occupied arranging a cluster of tulle to better resemble a floaty evening dress. The girl was cowling in concentration, the only noise in the room the crinkle of paper.

Seeing Petunia along was rather disconcerting, as she tended to surround herself with a veritable crowd of girls, all slender and giggly and rather popular in school. Even after the Evanses sent the last of Petunia's friends home, she could usually be counted on to track down Lily and coax her into playing with her. Then again, things had been somewhat frosty between the girls lately, and Mary was at a loss to explain why. It was as though Petunia had woken up one morning with the idea in her head to suddenly start cold-shouldering Lily for reasons best know to herself. _Perhaps it's a phase_, thought Mary.

"Tuney?" Petunia looked up expectantly, but did not answer. "I've got cookies in the oven. They'll be ready for eating soon, if you're hungry." Mary paused; she wasn't sure how she wanted to phrase the next comment that had already formed in her mind. "Honey, why are you playing in here all alone? Where's Lily?"

Petunia's scowl deepened at the mention of the name. She shrugged noncommittally and muttered, "Probably outside, for all I know. What do I care about her and her stupid games, anyway?"

Momentarily stunned by this unexpected rudeness, Mary nevertheless stood her ground. It occurred to her that perhaps Petunia was jealous that Lily—who Petunia had always insisted should tag along after her, like an obedient puppy—had discovered playmates other than her big sister and her attendant gaggle of girls. Mary sighed, picked up a single cutting of red ribbon from the jumble on the rig and, stooping slightly, tied it daintily around the waist of Petunia's paper doll. "There," she murmured, "that looks about right." She smiled at her oldest daughter and, as she backed out of the room to track down her younger daughter, Mary could've sworn she received the ghost of a smile in return. Years of living with Petunia had accustomed Mary Evans to the finer points of preadolescent melodrama.

As she approached the door to the back garden, the noises issuing in from outside confirmed what Mary suspected about Lily's whereabouts. For the second time, she paused in a doorway, half-hidden, to watch one of her daughters at play.

Two children of around nine—a redheaded girl and a black-haired boy—were running around Mary's back garden. Each was holding a long, slender stick, which they seemed to be employing as magic wands of some sort. Mary smiled at their ingenuity: the children seemed to be engaged in an imaginary magic duel of sorts, as they were jumping behind patio furniture, pointing the sticks at each other and shouting out what sounded like made-up spells.

"_Expelliarmus!_ Drop that wand, I've Disarmed you!"

"Are you sure that's a real spell, or did you just make that one up?"

"That's a real one! Look it up if you don't believe me! Or ask my mum, she'll tell you so."

Mary tried hard to suppress a widening grin. The imagination of young children was truly something wonderful. There was something like fire in her Lily's emerald eyes, and both children were possessed of such a look of intense concentration that it was almost mind-boggling. Mary stepped back a trifle to further obscure herself in the shadows of the doorway as her daughter neared her hiding place.

"Got you, Sev, I've got you!"

"No you didn't, Lily, you missed!"

"Did _not_, I got you fair and square!"

A two second pause was succeeded almost immediately by a grudging (but otherwise good-natured) "Oh, all right, you did. But next time, watch out!"

A round of laughter drowned out the remainder of the conversation, and Mary chanced another glance. The sun, though approaching the horizon, was still strong overhead, and the children had flung themselves down on the grass in the shade of the garden's only tree. Lily seemed to be twirling her stick expertly through her small fingers, while her friend Sev followed its progress with his dark eyes. Mary wondered for the life of her what two seemingly-normal kids could find so intriguing about a twig.

_Well…perhaps not so 'seemingly normal' after all…_Though Mary didn't always like to admit it, there was something very different about her Lily. Odd things sometimes happened around her. Lily didn't bring home crowds of girls from school like Petunia did; in fact, Petunia mentioned once or twice that many of Lily's classmates found her a bit strange. As if that weren't enough, Lily had become instant best friends with perhaps the one kid in their area who was as…different…as she was. _Perhaps more so_, though Mary, feeling slightly guilty as she eyed Lily's scrawny, underfed little friend's thoroughly secondhand clothes and general air of not being well cared for.

A sudden ringing nearly caused Mary to jump out of her skin. The children under the tree apparently heard it as well, because they immediately stifled their hushed conversation and jerked their eyes upward, spotting Mary almost instantly. More to cover her guilt at being caught spying on them, Mary stepped out into the garden and announced, "I've made some cookies, if either of you is hungry—"

She never finished the sentence. What resembled two nine-year-old blurs, rather than actual children, zipped past Mary into the kitchen, where Petunia had already abandoned her room and followed her nose along to the kitchen, where the succulent aroma of oatmeal, chocolate and a hint of vanilla overwhelmed all in the vicinity.

By the time Mary had approached the stove, donned her oven mitts and lifted a single cookie onto the spatula (never mind the actual platter), she was being fixed with identical stares from two pairs of wide eyes—one emerald, one ebony. About a full two feet away from Lily and Sev, who seemed to be trying to attract the cookies to them solely using the combined power of their minds (or so Mary thought, judging by the intensity of their gazes), sat Petunia. She seemed strangely on edge and eyed the other two children as if they were infected with something contagious; in fact, when Mary set the plate down on the table and three hands instantly shot out to claim their snacks, Petunia literally jumped as her fingers accidentally brushed Lily's.

It was all so strange, what was coming to pass between her girls, who had once been so close but had been growing increasingly distant. _But perhaps_, thought Mary a little wistfully, _this is just a necessary step that my girls need to take as they figure out who they are_. Mary had come to accept that her daughters were very different—one afternoon had been enough to prove that they had very different sorts of friends, played different types of games and displayed different mannerisms. Perhaps they were in fact so different that they had already begun to grow apart.

The telephone's loud ring jolted Mary out of her thoughts. Petunia beat her to it, and after her rehearsed recital of the usual "Evans residence, Petunia speaking," her face cracked in a grin and Mary could hear her voice take on the fluttery, giggly tone it always assumed when she chatted with her girlfriends. Sure enough, petunia had already settled herself in a hard kitchen chair as near the phone as possible, ignoring her odd sister and said sister's equally odd friend, who were both at this moment engaged in a whispered conversation punctuated by furtive laughter.

_They look so innocent_, thought Mary. _Even if they __are__ most likely gossiping about each other,_ she added mentally, her eyes flicking between Petunia, who kept lowering her voice dramatically and stage-whispering into the receiver, and the pair at the table, where Lily was mouthing something unintelligible, accompanying her silent message with a variety of elaborate gestures that Severus (_was that his name? It _was_ something rather unusual…) _watched with an eyebrow raised inquisitively, apparently willing himself not to laugh out loud.

In that moment, Mary vowed to fix that afternoon forever in her mind. No matter how much they argued about paint colors and each other's friends and wardrobe choices, they were her daughters. And they were, after all, just kids. Just kids trying to find their way in a world that seemed to grow more confusing by the day. They might tattle on each other to her or her husband, whine behind each other's backs about silly injustices that apparently still rankled and paint each other with the blackest of accusations (at least, for a pair of pre-teenage girls), but just through watching them, Mary could always assure herself that they both would do okay for themselves. Mary was fast becoming a real pro—she could gather more information from stolen glances taken through cracks in doors than in an entire conversation during the walk home from school (which, in fact, typically consisted of Petunia issuing a rapid-fire stream of information regarding who's 'dating' who and Lily punctuating the occasional pauses with recollections of some strange occurrence that had befallen her that day and her musings on the event). _Who would've thought_, Mary reflected as she turned from her usual post at the doorway, _that motherhood would prepare me for a career in espionage.._.

* * *

_What did you think? This one's a bit longer than all of my previous chapters—I originally wanted to focus on Lily, but Petunia stubbornly inserted herself in a much greater role than she originally occupied, and I was happy to leave her that way. This neck of the woods is positively crammed with interesting children—I'd **love** to visit their primary school. I have a feeling my muse would explode from excitement. Hey, that's an idea...*brain goes into overdrive*_

_Let's keep the excitement going—by **reviewing this chapter**! Mrs. Evans' homemade oatmeal-and-chocolate-chip-with-a-hint-of-vanilla (yes, they **do** exist; one of my sisters makes them exquisitely) to all reviewers as a token of my eternal gratitude. Three out of three fictional children agree that they are to die for! (Woah, _bad_ choice of phraseology, seeing as two of the aforementioned kids end up dead before the age of forty…sorry, kids!)_

_But seriously, review. It does the body good. And as I said, it's almost my birthday._

Only eight reviews stand between you, the readers, and chapter 10, featuring none other than Oliver Wood! Although if I get more than that, I may just burst from excitement!

_Best wishes to all, Delilah_


	10. Strong Medicine

_Well, readers, what can I say? I caved. I asked for 8 reviews, I got three and finally I just gave in and decided to post this chapter. What can I say, I guess I'm in the mood to be generous. Tomorrow's my birthday and I'm feeling giving._

_But please, don't let that stop you from reviewing. Even a word or two makes a difference to me, really. Consider it a birthday present._

_Well, as requested and promised, here he is--Oliver Wood. I knew everyone was expecting a Quidditch obsession, so I decided to go in a different direction with this one. I'm sure it will be surprising, but I hope you enjoy it. _

_As I was editing, I noticed that I used the Vocabulary Word of the Week in my story! It's a contest we run at the school I teach in--different words for different grades. The students need to define them, provide a synonym and write an original sentence in order to be considered 'Word Wizards'. Guess I'm a Word Wizard this week, too. Funny, the weird things you notice!_

* * *

Strong Medicine

A piteous howl sounded down the hallway. Claire Wood looked up from her book to see a thoroughly harassed-looking dog come trotting down the hall. It was trailing a long, linen bandage from its clearly uninjured tail. A cry of "Wait! Come back! You forgot your bill!" wafted into the room.

Claire sighed. Little Oliver certainly had a one-track mind. Once someone planted an idea in his head, he thought of nothing else. He was singularly determined.

She cursed whoever had convinced her son Oliver that he should be a Healer when he grew up. Ever since the notion had taken root, Oliver had played 'hospital' incessantly, insisting on 'curing' all of his stuffed animals, his parents, the dog and his baby brother of mysterious ailments only he knew the remedy for. When he wasn't making his rounds, he was lecturing ceaselessly at the table at mealtimes, in the bathtub and in bed as his mother pulled up the covers and his father turned out the lights.

"Mummy, you _can't_ talk! You're ill with spattergroit!"

"Don't move, Daddy, I'll pull it out! That's quite an injury you've got there!"

"Oliver…_what_ did you do to Samuel?"

"Nothing…just giving Sammy his vanishing sickness potion. I made it myself. You don't want him to _vanish_, do you?"

"You did WHAT!?!"

No, nothing could stop Oliver from pursuing his dreams. Not that the Woods hadn't tried, of course. Hoping to convince Oliver to find a new hobby after he 'diagnosed' an elderly neighbor lady with scrofunculus (much to her disgust), Richard Wood had harped on and on about how long Healers had to stay in school and train, how many NEWTs they needed and the difficult skills they must master. Not to be outdone, Oliver sat at the scrubbed kitchen table for hours, practicing sums and memorizing the properties of medicinal plants.

Claire took a different approach. One rainy day in November, she found herself walking down a busy London street with Sammy in her arms and Oliver clutching her hand. They were headed to St. Mungo's. There had been news of a dragon pox outbreak and, since it usually hit hardest in children and the very elderly, Claire was hoping to get her two sons inoculated with protective antiviral potions…just in case.

Oliver was in transports of delight once they crossed the threshold of the magical hospital, but Claire wasn't apprehensive. When it was finally their turn, Claire pulled the trainee Healer attending them aside and requested that she do whatever she could to convince Oliver that a career in medicine wasn't what he really wanted…at least for another decade or so. "Please," she had begged, "he nearly poisoned the baby with a 'potion' of his own creation. Half the neighbors won't even speak to us anymore because he keeps 'diagnosing' them with dreadful illnesses. This could be our only chance!"

The Healer played her part well. She entered the curtained-off area with a sigh that mingled a convincing exasperation with the exhaustion that Claire was sure was genuine. She spoke in a clipped, precise tone that bordered on indifferent and muttered to herself under her breath as she took notes. Claire pretended to look offended, but in her head she could hardly suppress her glee. _No more insulting the neighbors with weird diagnoses,_ she thought as she valiantly held back a grin. _No more homemade curative potions. No more unraveling meters of bandages from the dog…_

Oliver watched the woman closely, his face set. He asked her question after question, completely undeterred by her increasingly annoyed tone. She remarked casually how medical personnel had to be inoculated against all contagious diseases—both Muggle and magic—every six months, and how the potions they used to do so tasted positively foul. To further drive home this point, she ordered a dose of the most repulsive-tasting dragon pox protective draught (specially prepared as per the Healer and Mrs. Wood's request). When Oliver drank it, pinching his nose tight, he gagged getting it down. After retching slightly over a wastepaper basket, he gasped for breath and choked out "You have to drink these _every six months_?"

"Oh, yes," the Healer replied. "Loads of 'em, covering all your basic contagious illnesses, and as a future Healer, you know just how many there are…"

Mrs. Wood reflected that she shouldn't feel so elated at the look of horror dawning on her boy's face, but she brushed the thought aside.

Their Healer was ready to drive the final nail into the coffin that was Oliver Wood's Healing obsession. She pulled out a spiky, forbidding-looking metal instrument, at which Sammy took one look and started to wail. Oliver turned pale, his mouth forming a perfectly comical 'O' of mingled surprise and horror.

"W-what's _that_ for?" he stammered. The Healer smirked wickedly.

Oliver was very quite during the journey home, not speaking until his brother had been put down for a nap and he and his mum were stretched out on the living room couches, snuggled under quilts and reading peacefully. Oliver turned a page in his picture book thoughtfully and said, "I sure learned a lot about being a Healer today."

"_Did_ you?" asked Claire, pretending to still be perusing _Witch Weekly_, though here eyes had stopped following the words on the page.

"Yeah," her son continued. "I never knew it would be so hard and…not fun sometimes."

_We did it! We did it!_ Inside the sanctity of her mind, Claire was doing a dance of victory.

"Well, I guess you never really know until you've seen it firsthand, sweetheart. Don't worry, Ollie, you've got plenty of time to find something else you'd like to do when you grow up."

"Something else? Are you mad, Mummy? That just means I'll have to work extra hard!" Oliver's face was absolutely shining with optimism, and Claire heard herself groan as the door opened and a voice called, "I'm home!"

Oliver immediately rushed into the hall to greet his father, besieging him with details about their little outing. Over Oliver's head, Richard met his wife's eyes, confirming his fear: _It didn't work_. He sighed, dropped into an armchair and opened the _Evening Prophet_ with Oliver still capering around him.

As he read the first line of an article concerning some speech the Minister had given on recent Death Eater activity, he noticed that Oliver's monologue had ceased. Peeking around the corner of his paper, he saw his son staring avidly at the back page.

"Oliver?"

"What's that story about?"

Richard flipped the paper over to see what had caught Oliver's interest. It was the sports section. "The Cannons won their first game in two years," he began, but stopped when he saw the look in Oliver's eyes. It was _that look_, the look he got whenever he was moving on to some new obsession.

That night, there was no mention of the trip to St. Mungo's at the dinner table.

By the time Mr. and Mrs. Wood went upstairs to kiss Oliver goodnight, three-quarters of the wall space in his room had been papered with hand-drawn Quidditch pictures and clippings from the _Prophet's _sports section. Some of the pictures featured a boy who looked suspiciously like Oliver. The training broomstick that he had gotten for his birthday and only ridden once was now propped conspicuously against the foot of the bed, as though it had been casually discarded after a long, hard training session, and Oliver had pinned a large number '3' to the back of all his shirts in the wardrobe.

_This, too, will pass, _they thought. Or at least, they hoped.

* * *

_Did I live up to everyone's expectations? I sincerely hope so, but if not, tell me so._

_Otherwise, feel free (or even obligated, if that's your style) to drop the birthday girl a line and tell me your thoughts. Still taking requests, as always!_

_Next up: the FINALLY finished and ever-elusive Neville Longbottom. Stay tuned, for the not-so-distant future brings a once-mentioned childhood memory of Ron's (special appearance by Fred and George!), a sojourn to Spinner's End, some wintertime fun with a seemingly normal 'Muggle' boy called Dean Thomas and various forays into the next generation...  
_

_Reviews make me write faster. I think they inspire me. Of course, it could be all of your unique ideas...so keep 'em coming. Or just say hello; I don't mind._

_As always, yours,_

_Delilah_


	11. Forget Me Not

_Hello, readers! First off, thank you all for the birthday greetings--they were greatly appreciated! Thanks also for the reviews; they were excellent birthday gifts._

_Before we start off with the INCREDIBLY stubborn Neville Longbottom (who would originally have been chapter 8, I believe), I have a request to make of my readers. I have already received several requests for Marauder chapters. I agree that these interesting young men would make fascinating stories and am very eager to answer your requests with chapters for James, Sirius (possibly with his brother), Remus and maybe even Peter, but I need your help. What follows is a confession; please don't think poorly of me when you hear it. Here goes..._

_I'm not a huge Marauder fan. There, I said it. Whew. I know, I know, they're really popular, but from what I've read of them in canon (though we didn't get to see much of James, in truth) they remind me very much of the bullies who used to hassle me when I was but a scrawny middle schooler. Bad memories, you know. Now, I don't want to write touching childhood memories that have them acting like jerks--that would leave a bad taste in everyone's mouth, most of all mine. But the fact remains that I have a lot of trouble getting inside their heads, especially those of the leaders of the pack, so to speak (James and Sirius). So what I need from you, readers, are suggestions. What do you think the Marauders' childhoods were like? What kind of moments do you picture them sharing with their parents? Please tell me, because the sooner I can get a handle on the Maruaders, the sooner you'll have your chapters. I aim to please._

_On to business, then. I think we all can have a guess at what Neville's favorite childhood pasttime was. I always imagined him as growing up surrounded by people who were much older than him. I'm also working from a hypothesis (which could be entirely false) that, once he discovered the truth about what happened to his parents, Neville (subconsciously?) didn't really want to be a wizard anymore. When he realized, first-hand, just what kind of destruction magic could reap, I think Neville retreated inside a bit, which resulted in his overall magical mediocrity (don't get me wrong--I love Neville!). I think that we finally see Neville start to break out of his comfort zone in Year 5 only because he reaches some sort of epiphany--"yes, magic can hurt, but I really have two choices here: give up and give in or grit my teeth and _do_ something about it!" Neville, of course, does his parents proud with option 'B'--hence, the New Neville of secret-underground-resistance, Nagini-decapitating fame._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

Forget-Me-Not

Neville Longbottom followed his grandmother out into the garden at first light. He breathed in the smell of the soil, the damp morning air and the perfume of the many plants growing scattered throughout the space. Roses, lilies, forget-me-nots—all in full bloom. Gran's garden was his favorite place in the whole world. Here, he felt truly at home.

The weak, early morning sun shined down into the garden, illuminating everything. The flowerbeds were a riot of color in the morning haze and here and there, a bird chirped. Ahead of him, Neville could see his grandmother, clad in a housedress and a pair of sturdy gloves. She carried an ancient watering can.

"Neville? Are you following? Have you got everything?" Gran's voice sounded sharp in the morning silence, but Neville knew better. The old woman wheeled around and turned her sharp eyes on the boy as he set down the pruning shears on the ground by a blossoming rose bush. Her expression softened as she watched him take one of the delicate blossoms in his small, slightly pudgy hands.

Her Neville was a gentle soul. Most of the time, he was clumsy, forgetful, careless…a travesty of a child, really. But when he was working with plants, Neville was like a different person. Here he was purposeful and poised, completely engrossed in his work. His level of concentration was very surprising for such a small boy.

Augusta leaned over a hydrangea bush with her watering can, looking for dead leaves and clumps of dried-out flowers to prune away. She reached out a hand and deftly snipped off a dry, leafless twig when she stopped suddenly, listening hard.

A low, slightly high-pitched child's voice was murmuring under its breath words Augusta couldn't quite catch. She stayed very still, straining her ears for the words she was so curious to decipher.

"Good morning, Alice, how are you doing today? I see those buds I spotted last week are getting bigger. They'll be ready to open soon, for sure. I think we've gotta do something about the light back here; all the leaves in this corner are turning brown and falling off. Don't worry, I'll talk to Gran."

Augusta's heart stopped, clenched by a vice that it took her a minute to identify. She knew, of course, that Neville liked to talk to the plants as he gardened. All the best gardeners did; it was quite necessary, if you wanted the plants to grow tall and strong. Naming his charges wasn't out of the ordinary, either—it was a gardening thing that most people wouldn't understand.

But to hear Neville address the rosebush by his mother's name was jarring. Augusta wondered what had possessed the boy to do so. Come to think of it, did he even know his parents' first names? Whenever he mentioned them, it was always 'Mum' and 'Dad':

"Gran, are we going to see Mum and Dad this weekend?"

"I drew a picture for Mummy yesterday. Do you think she'll like it?"

"Work on your concentration and you'll be as skilled as your dad someday, Neville."

_"Gran, why don't Mum and Dad remember me?"_

Augusta could never remember referring to Frank and Alice by name in front of Neville—usually, because she wanted to protect him from that terrible knowledge until he was at least a little older, she talked little about them. She may have looked and sounded stern, but deep inside, Augusta Longbottom had a kind heart.

The times when she _did_ refer directly to her son and daughter-in-law, she made sure Neville was well out of earshot. Tonight was one of those nights.

"He was calling the rosebush 'Alice.' _Alice_, Algie."

"Augusta, must I remind you that _you_ name your plants as well?" the man said pointedly.

"But _Alice_? Are you not concerned that he's mentioning them again? We'll have to tell him!"

"Well, he already knows _something's_ wrong. I mean, you take him to see them every other day and they don't even know the boy's name," piped in another woman's voice.

Neville tensed behind the unlocked door. He had just reached out a small hand to turn the doorknob, to ask his Gran for a glass of warm milk to help him fall asleep, but the last comment that issued through the crack under the door made him stop. At last, he would find out why his parents were so unlike other kids' parents. Why they lived in a hospital room in a faraway city. Why they didn't sing lullabies. Why every time Neville hugged them, they simply looked bemused.

"The truth would haunt him!" insisted Augusta. "I want him to know about them as much as anybody else, but he's too young. He's _happy_ not knowing."

"Doesn't _look_ happy," interrupted Great-Auntie Enid in a hushed voice. All three adults spun around sharply to see none other than Neville, fully clad in his pajamas and fuzzy blue dressing gown, clutching a worn teddy bear by one paw. His eyes were wide and Augusta was of the opinion that he was fighting off tears. She normally didn't approve of such things, but she couldn't help feeling sorry for the child. She knew that, to her dying day, she could never forget the look on her grandson's face as he stood in the doorway, lost.

"Neville?" she began tentatively.

"What happened to my mum and dad, Gran?"

Great-Auntie Enid mumbled something about a nightcap and was followed out of the room promptly by Great-Uncle Algie. Gran looked after them, determinedly stalling for time by not meeting Neville's gaze.

"What happened?" repeated Neville in barely more than a whisper. His lower lip was trembling. Augusta decided that now, if ever, was the time to get it over with.

"Come sit down, Neville," she said wearily, and Neville clambered onto the sofa, still looking troubled. Augusta sat down beside him and took a deep breath.

"Your mum and dad got hurt and had to go and stay at the hospital so the Healers could take care of them," explained Augusta. She was hoping to unveil the terrible circumstances of the Longbottoms' fates in as little detail as possible.

"Why aren't they better yet? Shouldn't they be home by now?" asked Neville.

"They were hurt very badly, Neville. They probably won't ever get better. I'm sorry, dear."

Neville was crying in earnest now, silent tears rolling down his chubby cheeks. His voice shook slightly as he raised his next question, the one Augusta had been dreading:

"How'd they get hurt?"

In Neville's tear-filled eyes, Augusta thought she saw the silhouette of a mad, cackling woman, bodies writhing in pain and the stony dark stillness of the Death Eaters' trial. She had been there, to give testimony regarding the state of her son and daughter-in-law's health. It had not been pretty.

"There were some very, very bad people. They wanted your mum and dad to do something wrong. A really bad thing. Your mum and dad said no, so the people…they hurt them. They used evil magic to do it. They kept hurting them until they couldn't remember anything. That's why they have to live so far away, Neville—their brains got damaged. They won't work right anymore. They can't talk, and they don't recognize you, or me, or anyone else who loves them…"

Neville let out a wail and buried his face in his grandmother's shoulder. _It_ _wasn't fair_; his parents had never hurt anyone and those mean people had ruined them forever. Thanks to them, Neville's mum would never kiss him goodnight; his dad would never buy him his first broom and teach him to fly. Neville couldn't even remember them (for the couple in the hospital room most certainly _weren't_ them, not really). Even when he tried his hardest, he only got confused images of strong arms and sweet-smelling perfume.

_"I know, Neville…I miss them, too," comforted Augusta, patting the still-sobbing child on the back and feeling a single tear slide down her own cheek. "But they wouldn't want you to be sad, dear. Why don't I get you that milk and tuck you into bed?"_

Neville nodded, and for a while he didn't bring up his parents at all, even though his grandmother talked about them much more freely both around Neville and to him. Neville didn't really want to hear it. It was as though he had just lost them all over again, and nothing comforted him except sitting in the garden among the plants.

Plants were simple, after all—you water them, and they grow. Questions of right and wrong, of loyalty and evil and bad magic were just too much for Neville, and if this was what magic could do to people, he really wanted no part of it. _Magic isn't so good after all,_ he thought. _Magic hurt my parents and it can't fix them. I'm not sure I want to be a wizard anymore…_but what else could he be? The ideal situation, he pondered, would be to become a plant, and only have to worry about catching the rays of the sun and the cool drops of rain, turning his face every morning to catch the dawn's light. Sometimes, as he sat among the plants, Neville pretended he was one of them.

The next best solution, however, would be to care for the plants. Dealing with them did not have the same complications that dealing with people did. Plants couldn't hurt you. They couldn't disappoint. And though the leaves fell off in the autumn, the flowers turned brown and shriveled, sure enough they'd come back in the spring. And for a long time, Neville would hold that opinion close to his heart. He didn't want to remember. But he could never, ever forget.

* * *

_Ah, that was a sad one. Sorry if it made you melancholy, but once I got past the fourth paragraph or so, it just kind of spilled out. Neville was a bit of a late bloomer, so I guess it's fitting._

_Anyway, I'd be eternally grateful for your thoughts, and your Maurauder suggestions. I don't want to disappoint._

_Another Weasley chapter follows, and it's a laugh (FRED and GEORGE, readers!), so hopefully it'll counterbalance the tragedy of Neville's sad story. It had better, at least, for after we leave the Burrow we're going to Spinner's End, and there's no shortage of tragedy there. _

_You can also look forward to a Next Gen chapter coming soon--and no, it's not one of the Trio's kids. My lips are sealed. I've taken all your suggestions, even the little known ones, and I'm planning on addressing all of them as well as a few of my own (I've been contemplating Luna Lovegood and Nymphadora Tonks for a while, so someday they'll take the stage if all goes well). As usual, more requests are always welcome and will be added to the list. I could truly go on forever, given enough requests. Keep 'em comin'! _

_All My __Best, Delilah_


	12. Unbreakable

_Fastest update ever, readers (well, at least for me...I think...)! I have to give a huge, resounding thank-you to all my reviewers for their suggestions, their words of encouragement and most of all their advice for my Marauder conundrum. Don't worry, they'll get written. Still accepting ideas, though. I've only got one in the initial planning stages so far. _

_Which leads me to a piece of business. As you may or may not know, I am a teacher. I'm also a graduate student, and the last week of my semester is approaching. Since I've got an absolutely massive paper due in a week, I'm afraid the only writing I'll be doing for the next few days will concern my M.A. Believe me, no one is more upset than I. Accursed advanced degree requirements. Apparently the Half-Blood Prince shares my feelings, as I was working on his chapter during lunch and he was behaving almost as stubbornly as I am accustomed to. Oh, well...we can't always get what we want._

_After the heavy chapter that was poor little Neville's, here's some light-hearted comedy starring little Ron Weasley (he always works his way into my Weasley fics!) and the Twin Terrors, Gred and Forge. If I may, I would like to start with a quote (which, along with everything else, I do not own):_

"An Unbreakable Vow?" said Ron, looking stunned. "Nah, he can't have...Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure," said Harry. "Why, what does it mean?"

"Well, you can't break an Unbreakable Vow..."

"I'd worked that much out for myself, funnily enough. What happens if you break it, then?"

"You die," said Ron simply. "Fred and George tried to get me to make one when I was about five. I nearly did, too, I was holding hands with Fred and everything when Dad found us. He went mental," said Ron, with a reminiscent gleam in his eyes. "Only time I've ever seen Dad as angry as Mum. Fred reckons his left buttock has never been the same since."

_--Ron Weasley and Harry Potter on Unbreakable Vows_

_Half-Blood Prince, American hardback edition, pgs. 325-6_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

Unbreakable

Seven-year-old Fred and George Weasley peeked around the legs of a kitchen chair, checking to see if the coast was clear. Fred nodded to George, who tiptoed around to the kitchen work surface across the room. Reaching an arm up and groping around blindly with a small hand, George felt wood between his outstretched fingers. He withdrew his hand, a wand clutched in his fist. He smirked. Crouched behind the forest of chair legs, Fred's face cracked into an identical evil grin.

Five-year-old Ron was sprawled on the sitting room floor. Screwed-up balls of parchment surrounded him, like crunchy yellowish tumbleweeds. He had a red crayon clutched in his hand—a new one, still sharp from the box and smelling strongly of wax. His brow was furrowed as he slowly and deliberately moved his hand across the page.

The twins approached Ron, stepping over the parchment balls side by side. They stood in front of him until, blinking slowly at this unexpected interruption, Ron looked up from his unfinished masterpiece.

"Whatcha doin'?" asked Fred good-naturedly.

"Nothing," said Ron. Fred and George were sneaky sometimes. Ron could never tell if they were trying to play a joke on him.

"Doesn't look like nothing," pressed George.

_Won't they go away? Last time they asked me this, they got me to eat all of Mum's cookies that she made for Grandad…_

"Just drawing Quidditch pictures," Ron conceded uneasily as the twins leaned over him, looking at the pictures.

"We know something even more fun than drawing Quidditch pictures," said Fred.

"Much more fun," added George. "Like a game. But we can't do it."

"Why?" asked Ron. He had never known his brothers to let anything—not the rules, their age, the weather, or even common sense—stop them from doing something they wanted to do.

"We need three people," explained Fred, his features arranged in a most convincing expression of frustration.

"So why do you want to play with _me_?" asked Ron sagely. "You always say I'm too little."

George heaved an impressive sigh. "Because Bill and Charlie are at school and Percy's just no fun. _You're_ fun, Ron, and we think you're really gonna like it."

Ron puzzled over this intriguing possibility for a moment, his head cocked to one side thoughtfully. Something was rather fishy here…but he didn't want Fred and George to think he was a baby. Swallowing any doubts that had surfaced in his innocent, four-year-old mind, Ron padded after his brothers, the Quidditch picture abandoned on the sitting room floor.

The twins led Ron out the front door and around the side of the house. The late afternoon air smelled of grass and wildflowers, and every now and then a bird called lazily from one of the garden trees. In the tall grasses beside the garden shed, the three boys knelt down, facing each other.

"Are you sure we won't get in trouble?" asked Ron, his blue eyes growing wide.

Another smirk, mirrored on each twin's face.

"Nah, Dad's off somewhere and Mum's doing some sort of boring number stuff with Percy, she won't even notice we're out."

It only occurred to Ron for a split second that this convenient privacy would also mean no one would rush to his aid if and when he began screaming for mercy. It happened, after all. Like that time his teddy bear…Ron shuddered. He hadn't been the same since.

When he pulled himself out of his reminiscences long enough to pay attention to what was going on around him, Ron noticed that the twins were muttering to each other out of the corners of their mouths.

"What should we make him do?"

"I dunno…could be anything…"

"What are you guys talking about? Can I hear, too?"

The twins snapped to attention. Fred met George's eyes and their faces lit up in glee as a truly wicked smile curved their lips. It seemed yet another brilliant scheme had passed between them without a single word being broken.

"Okay, Ron," said Fred sweetly (or as sweetly as he could manage). "Want to play with us?"

Ron nodded. Finally, he was getting to the bottom of this.

"Let's play pretend. This is our secret hideout."

Again, Ron looked puzzled. The twins were beginning to think 'puzzled' was their younger brother's default setting.

"Some grass near Dad's shed? It isn't real secret, is it?"

Two hands slammed up to smack their owners' identical foreheads in frustration. Fred let out an exasperated sigh as George elaborated.

"_Nooo_…the Secret Hideout of the Order of the Birdy," he explained with the air of one proving a complex argument beyond all logical reasoning.

"I'm 'Fesser Dumblydore," said Fred.

"And I'm his right-hand man, George," said George.

"But you're a lefty."

Another exasperated sigh. "That's just a grown-up way to say I'm his bestest friend," George offered.

"I don't think 'Fesser Dumblydore has a friend called George," mused Ron, but his brothers scoffed.

"That shows how much _you_ know—nothing!"

"Anyway, do you want to join the Order and fight the 'torious bad guy You-Know-Who and the Dead Eaters with us? You get to do _real magic_ and everything!" enticed the twins, holding up their mother's wand for good measure. A single violet spark emanated from its tip and Ron's eyes widened until they seemed to be approaching the size of golf balls.

"_Really?_ Where'd you _get_ that?"

A twin—was it Fred? Or George?—shrugged casually. "Mum left it out. She told us to go have fun. She didn't say we couldn't play with it, she just said to get out of her hair. We're not in her hair out here…"

Ron hesitated for a mere two seconds before nodding eagerly and reaching both hands out for the wand. George jerked it away and Fred made to hold out a hand, barring Ron's way.

"Not so fast, pal. We can't just let anyone in. We have to know that we can trust you to be good and brave and do anything 'Fesser Dumblydore says and not be a spy for the Deaf Beaters," said Fred, while his twin nodded in mute agreement.

"I promise," said Ron, offering his pinky for what he apparently considered a solemn oath.

"That's what the last guy said," murmured George in a voice appropriate to a most somber occasion.

"And he was a spy," added Fred. "He tried to turn us all in to You-Know-Who-I'm-Talking-About!"

"Let's make an Unbreakable Vow," suggested George. "Then we'll know Ron's not a spy."

"But I'm _not_," whimpered Ron. "I never even _met_ a spy before!"

"Then you've got nothing to be afraid of," reasoned Fred. "Go on, make the Vow."

"Uh…okay. If you promise it won't hurt."

"Of course it won't, grown-ups do it all the time. It's much cooler than a pinky swear. Those are for _babies_."

Ron looked defiant. _I am __not__ a baby! I'll show them, _he thought as he turned himself around in the dry grass until he was kneeling opposite Fred. The two boys joined hands and George, standing over them, placed the wand tip on their linked hands.

"Ouch! You poked me, George!"

"Sorry."

Fred cleared his throat impressively. "Ron Bilius Weasley," he began. Ron grimaced. He didn't like his name, much. Why couldn't he have been named Jimmy? Or Hercules? Or maybe even Enrique…

"Do you promise to do everything me and George say, no matter what?"

"I—"

"Come on, Ron, it's just a game," wheedled George.

Ron's expression cleared slightly. He opened his mouth to answer when—

CRASH. The door of the shed burst open and Arthur Weasley stood before them. His eyes darted from the joined hands to the wand tip as his brain processed the sentence he had just overheard while trying to fit the ribbon to a newly acquired Muggle typewriter. His face slowly changed between a vivid spectrum of colors as it contorted with rage. The twins and Ron eyed this spectacle with mild surprise.

"FRED AND GEORGE WEASLEY! _WHAT_ WERE YOU—_NEVER_ DID I THINK YOU WOULD—_WHERE _YOU GOT THE IDEA—_**MOLLY**_!!"

Ron decided that this was the time to run for it. He passed his mother streaking into the yard, closely tailed by a gloating Percy, eager to hear his younger siblings get told off, and a small flock of chickens. By the time he reached the house door, the shouting was so shrill and cacophonous that he could only make out a single sentence, in Fred's highly affronted voice:

"Ow! My bum!"

* * *

_What did you think? Let me know, along with any other chapter ideas. I'm thinking of perhaps posting a list of characters that have been requested or thought up by me in a future A.N., just to give you an idea of what lies ahead in the (in some cases, rather distant) future._

_This may be my last update for over a week or so, so don't worry--I haven't died and I'm not holding on to chapters out of spite. I'm just doing my homework like a good girl. _

_In the meantime, be well and review. Forgive me not giving a long preview this time around, as I went into quite a bit of detail regarding the next two or three chapters last time._

_Delilah_


	13. The Exact Art of Potion Making

_Hello, readers, I'm finally back! It's been terrible, the past couple of weeks. Grad school had one final hurdle before the end of the semester, and that hurdle was 15 pages long. Meanwhile, my work days have been taking place under a pervasive black cloud. Our own Dolores Umbridge is making life hell for the staff—inspections, ratings, classroom observations, surprise collections of planning materials, you name it. And of course, the students don't help one bit; they all seem to have decided that now would be an ideal time to pretend they are characters from Lord of the Flies. Just when I thought I couldn't attain new levels of strictness…_

_Anyway, I've returned (hopefully not anticipating any more long hiatuses), along with the Half-Blood Prince, who will be making a return appearance this week as well. Some parents do craft projects with their kids on rainy days. Eileen Snape has something else in mind…_

* * *

The Subtle Science and Exact Art of Potion-Making

It was raining. Not the light, refreshing kind of rain that is welcoming in late July; no, torrents of chilly rain had been pounding the roof and the small windows all day. About two hours ago, water had started seeping through cracks in the windowpanes and ever since that morning, Eileen had been periodically replacing the pots and saucepans under the leak in the sitting room ceiling as they gradually filled.

Eileen dreaded rainy days because they kept everybody indoors, too close together in already cramped quarters, with nothing better to do than get on each other's nerves. Tobias would often go straight from the mill to the pub with a handful of drinking mates, returning only once his money ran out, and then in a foul temper.

Rainy weather also meant that Eileen had to share living space with her son much more often than was usual. On most days, Severus would spend most of the daylight hours out of the house, only to return home for dinner, wash up and retire to his room without so much as a word. What he did around the neighborhood all day was anyone's guess.

Today was especially bad. Severus had been moping around the house for three days in the darkest of dark, brooding moods. Standing at the work surface of her minute kitchen, Eileen snuck a peek at him through the doorway. He looked thoroughly depressed. He was curled up miserably in a moth-eaten armchair, half-heartedly gazing at a book. As his eyes didn't seem to be following the text and he hadn't turned the page in nearly twenty minutes, Eileen deduced that her son was merely pretending to read so she wouldn't question him.

The first day of Severus' lethargy, Eileen had figured he was ill. She had forced a thermometer under his tongue and a steaming beverage down his throat with little protest from him, only to see him squeeze into a chair next to the front window and gaze out sadly, for hours.

On the second day, Eileen had considered prying Severus away from his spot by the window and dragging him to the free clinic located several blocks away. Muggle medicine might be crude, but it was better than nothing and Tobias would not tolerate a sick child in the house.

It was only after some seriously skilled questioning and prying around mid-morning that Eileen got to the root of the problem. _Of course,_ she thought to herself. _That little friend of Sev's is on holiday with her parents this week._ Instead of wandering the neighborhood with that Evans girl, Severus would be spending the next seven days as a permanent fixture in the sitting room, arranging his face into various expressions of gloom and occasionally sighing morosely. Eileen could never remember feeling _that_ lonely in her whole life, much less at the tender age of ten. Complete with the backdrop of shabby armchair and pounding gale outside the dusty window, he was the very image of misery.

A clap of thunder sounded outside, causing the panes of glass in the windows to rattle. Eileen shuddered involuntarily—with a downpour this bad, Tobias would be holed up in the pub with his mates for hours. _He'll be really drunk when he gets home,_ thought Eileen with a jolt. _And he's always worse when he's drunk…Sev's gonna set him off, moping around like that. _

There was nothing for it. If she and her sullen little boy were going to make it through the night without suffering any lasting damage, she would have to take action. One priority would be to have a Hangover Draught ready to slip into Tobias' coffee after he eventually got home, passed out on the sofa and woke up several hours later, thoroughly disoriented. Her second priority was to get Severus out of his bad mood. One bad-tempered family member was bad enough. No need to add fuel to the fire.

"Severus?"

"Hmmm?" He looked up forlornly. Eileen struggled not to roll her eyes. _For God's sake, boy, she hasn't _died_, you know…_

"Get the chest from the back of the cupboard for me, will you?"

Scrawny little Severus struggled to extricate the wooden chest containing Eileen's potion-making kit, which was hidden at the very back of the cupboard, camouflaged behind a few half-empty boxes of snack crackers, iodized salt and breakfast cereal. He heaved it onto the countertop and watched, wide-eyed, as Eileen opened the chest. It was full of strange-looking little glass bottles, shimmery powders and aromatic herbs. Leaning against the doorjamb, Severus saw his mother rummaging in another cupboard, where she kept her limited supply of pots and pans, most of which were in any case being employed to keep the leaks in the ceiling from flooding the house.

Finally hauling an old cauldron out of the mostly-empty cupboard, Eileen set it on the counter and kindled a fire underneath. Severus tried hard not to look too interested. He didn't often see his mother do magic; his father didn't like it and, in the Snape household, Tobias' word was martial law. The current whereabouts of Eileen's wand were a mystery, and most of her spellbooks had been either handed down to Severus or otherwise taken by the son without the mother's knowledge. Either way, she would never allow herself to be caught doing magic, at least by her husband.

Potion-making was pretty much all Eileen had left tying her to the magical world. A well-prepared Calming Draught here and there had put a quick end to family arguments that could have otherwise ended in tragedy. Eileen's knowledge of medicinal potions brought the family through two bouts of pneumonia, seasonal allergies and the occasional flu. A little something extra here and there could make a seemingly meager stew into something special.

Eileen poured some water into her cauldron to get started, looked up for the recipe, and met an inquisitive pair of dark eyes that quickly tried to look away in feigned indifference. Eileen suppressed a grin. _So you're interested now, eh? That got you out of your bad mood quick enough…_

"You want to help?"

"Really? You never let me help."

"You're old enough to start learning. Is that a yes, I take it?"

Severus nodded mutely, hardly daring to believe that his mother was inviting him to help her. She beckoned for him to come closer, and he moved into the kitchen to stand beside her. Eileen produced a silver knife from the chest and handed it to her son. She held up a strange-looking fruit.

"Think you can slice this up for me?"

He nodded again, reaching for the fruit. She laid it on the carving board and busied herself with tearing up bundles of knotgrass.

"Like this?" Eileen looked over her son's shoulder to inspect his handiwork.

"Thinner," she said. "You want it as close to paper-thin as you can get without it cracking and falling apart."

Eileen watched for a minute as Severus got back to work. After about two minutes of carefully slicing immaculately thin pieces, his work started getting sloppier and he seemed to be getting that vague, dreamy look on his face again.

"Pay _attention_, Sev!"

"I _am_," he replied, frowning.

"Doesn't look like it," rejoined his mother. "Watch where you're sticking that—"

"_Ow_!"

"—knife. All right, let me see."

The cut didn't look too serious, though she supposed it really stung. Eileen pulled out a bottle marked 'Dittany' and poured a small amount on the cut; it smoked and began to heal.

"That's why you've got to _pay attention_. Potion-making requires _focus_, Sev."

"I miss Lily."

"You'll be missing a lot more than Lily if you don't _wake up_ when you're using that knife," cautioned Eileen, half-joking. She looked up to see her son gaping at her, grinned and could have sworn she got the shadow of a grin back in return.

The afternoon passed pleasantly enough. After passing the first ten minutes in silence, they started to make small talk. Severus asked question after question about potion-making, which Eileen tried to answer to the best of her ability. Eileen asked tentatively about Lily and noticed with faint amusement the look her son got on his face whenever he talked about her. _I wish I had a friend like that when I was a kid_, she thought. As the time wore on and she stood back to actually scrutinize her ten-year-old's work, Eileen noted with pride that, when he wasn't moping about his suddenly Lily-free existence, her Sev was very talented, for a kid. _Good focus, steady hand, an intuitive grasp of potion-making if I ever saw it…he must get it from his mother._ Eileen glowed inside. She had precious little to feel proud of these days, but the knowledge that this little potions prodigy in the making was _all hers_ was enough to make her feel warm and contented, despite the dreary day and her even drearier surroundings.

By six o'clock, the two potioneers poured out four flasks of the now-complete Hangover Draught and cleaned up. Eileen set one of the little bottles on a shelf behind the spare change jar and carefully hid the others in her potion-making kit. Mother and son stood back to admire their handiwork.

"You did really well, Severus," said Eileen. He turned to look at her, seemingly caught off guard.

"What?"

"I said you did well, don't look so shocked. You're much better than I was at your age; that potion isn't exactly the easiest one to make. Keep up the practice and you'll be great someday, you wait and see. After all, you _are _half a Prince."

"Practice? You mean I can help you again?"

Eileen smiled. "Yes, I don't see why not. Give it a few more years and you'll know all there is to know about the subtle science and exact art of potion-making."

Raucous laughter and the sound of someone stumbling issued from outside. Mother and son exchanged dark, troubled glances.

"Get yourself upstairs and wash up before dinner," Eileen murmured. "And for God's sake, don't dare come back down with that tragic look on your face again, you'll just get us both in trouble." Rummaging in the refrigerator for something to cook, she steeled herself for the inevitable bellow of "EILEEN!" _I just hope he remembers not to get all melodramatic around Tobias_, she prayed. _Subtlety isn't only useful in potion-making…_

* * *

_Returning to my usual format, I wish to give you all a little preview of what lies ahead:_

_Dean Thomas is getting pushed back just a little bit. He's not cooperating at the moment._

_Next chapter will be a next-gen! I wonder whose kid it will be…?_

_I've started the first Marauder chapter as well, so prepare yourselves: Remus Lupin (my favorite Marauder…well, really the only one I like at all, personally) awaits. I must say, I'm enjoying writing little Remus…he comes across as a sweetheart. Definitely not a smartmouth little thing like me._

_Also in the future: I'm hoping to write one of the girls from Harry's year fairly soon; haven't decided between the Patils and Lavender Brown. Ideas are welcome._

_Hoping you're all well and still reading after my unintentional break—keep those reviews coming!_

_Yours, as always, _

_Delilah _


	14. When Darkness Falls

_Back again, readers! Ugh, my computer certainly doesn't love me. It keeps forbidding me Internet access-some stupid virus that reappears like black mold every time I manage to eradicate it. Nothing to do but keep fighting back, I suppose, but it makes updating a real pain. _

_I must say, it's a relief for grad school to be over for the next few months and [work] school's ending this month, but the last-minute madness of preparing students' records, portfolios and paperwork is killing us all. It seems like there have been fewer hours in the day as of late-I sat in traffic for 2 hours on my way home yesterday, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel impatiently and singing along to my zydeco in overly-loud Cajun French that probably scared the crap out of the people in the cars nearest me, as I'm willing to bet none of them got a word of what I was saying. There's only so many times one can sing "Jole Blon" before it starts to get old. Oh, well...it's New York; I'm sure when they count up the weirdest things they've ever seen in this city, me & my zydeco music won't even rate the top 10._

_Next-gen this time around, as per a request. I decided to wait on Harry & relations' kids for a while as I jot down plot points for them; in the meantime, I decided to write Draco's little darlin'. Hope you like it!_

* * *

When Darkness Falls

Scorpius Malfoy had a secret.

No, he didn't still wet the bed. He sincerely didn't enjoy the boring tea parties Mother sometimes dragged him to. And he _certainly_ didn't have a tiny crush on that lively, freckle-faced brunette he had bumped into in the candy shop the other day ("Urgh, Dad, girls have_ cooties,_" he had insisted at the time).

This secret was not a playful one, not by a long shot. It was a dark secret that only came out to haunt Scorpius when his mother pulled the bedroom curtains and kissed him goodnight.

Scorpius Malfoy was afraid of the dark.

He couldn't help it, really. It wasn't as if he _wanted_ to feel that creeping dread every time the lights went out. He certainly never planned for the wind to make those creepy noises outside his window, or for the floorboards to creak ominously whenever he tried to tiptoe out of bed for a glass of water. It just...happened.

The dark conjured up all sorts of bad images. Dark curses that left Father quiet and withdrawn some nights. Dark, mad eyes staring up at Scorpius from a picture of a teenaged girl he had found in his grandmother's bedside cabinet drawer. Dark wizards lurking in the Malfoy family tree, who for some reason prevented other kids from playing with Scorpius or laughing at his jokes. Dark looks exchanged between Mother and Father whenever he asked them why he didn't have many friends. It seemed like Darkness was everywhere he looked. Even his name sounded Dark.

Yes, Scorpius had good reason to fear the dark.

Tonight was one of those windy nights. It howled outside the windowpanes incessantly. _Like a ghost,_ thought Scorpius. _Maybe my room is haunted._

Instinctively, he looked around the room, straining his eyes for any hint of supernatural activity. He clutched his stuffed dragon close. There was nothing. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

_Should I try to fall asleep?_ He wondered this to himself, twisting the blanket between his fingers. _Father would want me to be brave. He wouldn't be proud of me if he knew I was scared._

Scorpius tried to think of what his father would say if he told him about his fear. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. After all, it wasn't like he was planning on confiding in Grandfather…

_Grandfather is scary. Even Father seems scared of him, sometimes._

Scorpius knew that his grandfather loved him and would never hurt him, not ever. But that didn't stop him from being a little afraid of the man. Lucius Malfoy commanded respect and deference from everyone he encountered and, even after his spectacular fall from grace, he had never abandoned the habit. Grandma was a lot easier to talk to.

_Everyone says Father's just like Grandfather,_ Scorpius mused, largely to distract himself from the wind's mournful howl. _But he's not. Father talks to me when he tucks me in every night. He plays with me and builds me castles out of blocks and secret hideouts in the garden. He lets me dance with Mother at parties while he sits and watches. He even pretends not to like the cherry on top of his ice cream so I can have it. I don't think Grandfather ever did any of that._

These thoughts strengthened Scorpius' resolve just a little. Maybe he _should_ tell his parents how he felt; it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe they would even let him sleep with the light on.

_Cr-re-eak_. Scorpius sat bolt upright.

"What was _that_?" he asked the stuffed dragon. Unsurprisingly, it did not respond. Scorpius felt himself shivering, though it was too dark to see his hands shaking in his lap.

_Cr-re-eak_. There it was again! That scary sound—it made the hair stand up on the back of Scorpius' neck, reminding him of the eerie screech of a hag he had once spotted when out shopping with his mother. _What if there's a hag in my closet?_

Scorpius weighed his options. He could try to ignore the sound and go to sleep. He could risk life and limb investigating the closet for evidence of hags. He could try to sleep in the drawing room, which was just as dark as his bedroom but perhaps without the hag in the closet. Or he could wake his parents and beg them to turn on the lights. Decisions, decisions…

_Cr-re-e—CRASH! _That was it. There was nothing for it. At the sound of the crash, Scorpius leapt from his bed and positively sprinted across the room, abandoning his slippers and dressing gown, taking only his toy dragon.

His feet flew over the hall's rich carpeting as he streaked towards his parents' bedroom. _What was that awful crash? Is there really something living in the closet after all?_ Scorpius shook his head violently, as if the gesture would sent these disturbing thoughts flying out of his brain.

When he reached his parents' bedroom door, he hesitated for a moment, hand poised over the finely wrought silver doorknob. Now that he was here, Scorpius wasn't so sure he wanted to wake them after all.

_The closet! Whatever's in there will get me! There's nothing else I can do!_

Taking a shuddering breath, Scorpius turned the doorknob and slipped inside.

The room was a bit quieter than his had been, but he could still hear the wind moaning outside. Across the vast expanse of carpet, he could see the huge, dark shape that was his parents' bed.

He crept towards his mother's side of the bed. She was sleeping peacefully, completely undisturbed by the horrors concealed inside her son's bedroom closet. Scorpius thought fleetingly of curling up on the ground beside her and spending the night there, on the floor. It was certainly a more welcoming possibility than returning to his room.

"Scorpius?"

It was Father's voice. He was peering over the edge of the bed and Mother's sleeping form, propped up on one elbow, eyes searching blearily through the darkness.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

Scorpius gulped. _Now or never_. "It's my room, Father. There's something in there. There are all sorts of scary sounds and at first I thought it was the wind," he began, the words tumbling out of him in a great rush. "But what if there's something in my room, hiding in the closet, waiting to eat me? The shadows make scary pictures on the walls and I can't sleep."

He paused to draw breath. His father simply stared. _Might as well do the thing properly_. "It's the dark, Father. I'm…I'm scared," Scorpius finished, somewhat lamely.

"The dark. I see." Draco paused, deep in thought, scrutinizing the abject terror on his son's face. He sighed. "Well, there's only one thing we can do."

Scorpius froze. Father looked serious. _He's going to take me back to bed, _he thought with a sinking feeling.

Draco nudged his sleeping wife. "Astoria. Wake up. Move over a bit, will you?"

Astoria Malfoy murmured in her half-awake state and rolled over obligingly. Draco got out of bed, walked over to the spot where Scorpius stood, still clutching his stuffed dragon, clearly confused. He wrapped his arms around his son, picked him up and settled him into bed between Astoria and himself.

"Better, Scorpius?" he asked.

Scorpius snuggled into the crisp sheets, breathing in the smell of his mother's herbal shampoo and feeling the reassuring warmth of their bodies beside him. Somehow, the velvety darkness was more comforting than scary, now.

"Yes, Father, much better."

"Good night, son."

"Good night."

* * *

_Thoughts? Please let me know! It's always good to hear from you guys...makes up for every time I get stuck in traffic on the way home or some kid at work says my accent's funny. _

_Also: ideas are incredibly appreciated._

_Judging by the precarious state of my computer, I'm not sure when my next update will be, but I'm fairly sure it will include a certain underage werewolf. I'm saying nothing more._

_'Til next time, then,_

_Delilah_


	15. Claire de Lune

My dear readers! I have returned yet again, and no, I did not fall off the face of the earth! One more day of school and I am free as a bird, so I managed to get this little story banged out as I await that happy day. It's a bit shorter than I originally planned, but I liked the way it turned out as a short chapter. This one takes us to visit Remus, my favorite Marauder and the only one of the four I really, truly like. Poor _cher_, he's dealt a rough hand in this chapter, but I think it just shows what a little sweetheart he is.

I'm sincerely sorry about the wait, readers, as it was due to awful circumstances outside my control. On the brighter side, my computer is now virus-free, which is good news for future updates!

On an interesting side note, this chapter idea came to me in the same traffic jam where I performed my impromptu zydeco concert for the occupants of nearlby cars. Nothing like a little Cajun accordion to write pint-sized Remus to! Strange, though, no?

Enjoy!

* * *

Claire de Lune

The moon hung, high and bright overhead and the stars twinkled against the velvety darkness. Down below, a small boy and his mother lay on their backs in the grass behind their house, gazing up at the stars.

"There's so many, Mum!" he whispered excitedly.

"I know, Remus…more than we could ever count," replied his mother.

She looked over at her son and was surprised and slightly worried to see that his look of wonder had been replaced with an expression of angst unbecoming to a small boy.

"What's wrong, sweetie?"

The little boy looked troubled, as though he had been laden with a burden worthy of a man four times his age. He shrugged at first, but his mother was persistent. With a sigh, Remus elaborated.

"It's getting bigger," he said glumly, in a voice so low it was almost completely obscured by the chirps of the crickets and nightbirds.

Grace Lupin followed her son's gaze to the silvery disk hanging above them. "The moon?" she clarified.

The boy nodded. "It'll be time soon," he said with a visible shudder.

She saw no reason to deny what Remus so astutely realized. "That's true," she began.

"When?"

"It's difficult to say," his mother continued. "Tomorrow? Maybe the next day."

Remus was still on his back, gazing skywards. Mrs. Lupin watched his face, visible only in profile. A silent tear escaped his eye.

"Talk to me, sweetheart."

He didn't turn to face his mother, perhaps ashamed of his moment of weakness, but instead addressed the stars above.

"It's not fair," he began in a tremulous voice. "I don't know why it has to happen. Why me? It's so scary when it starts, and it hurts so much, and…"

His mother repressed a sob when she heard her son's voice crack on the next sentence.

"…and I hate being all alone until it's over. I wish you could stay and hold my hand so I could know it's gonna be okay."

For a long time they lay in silence, mother and son, watching the stars glittering overhead. Silently she took his hand.

"It's gonna be okay, Remus," she whispered soothingly. "Whenever you get scared or lonely, look up at the stars in the sky and remember this night and know that the very same stars are shining down on me. Remember how much we love you."

He sniffled as she continued, "Whenever you're hurt or in pain, remember the feel of my hand in yours and know that Daddy and I would do anything we can to keep you safe. Never forget how much we love you."

Remus sat up, leaned over and snuggled close to his mother. "I love you, Mummy," he murmured into her blouse as he buried his face in her shoulder.

"I love you too, Remus," she whispered into the top of his head.

The following evening found Grace Lupin sitting propped up against a heavy door, locked and bolted tight. She pressed her face against the grain of the wood and curled up, her entire body raked with sobs as she heard the voice issuing piteously from the other side. Barely audible through the thick door, Remus' cries and repeated shouts of "Mummy! Are you there?"very nearly rent her heart in two.

She placed a hand on the door, as though she could touch him. "I'm here, Remus," she choked out with great effort. "I'm right by you're side. I'm not going anywhere. It's gonna be okay, son, I promise you."

As the moonlight streamed through the narrow hall window, Grace cried silent tears into her hands, devoutly grateful that her son could not witness her despair at his needless suffering. Behind locked doors, a creature feared by all but with more to fear than any gazed skyward with an air of supplication, comforted only by the thought that the one he trusted above all others was near.

* * *

Did you like iyt? I hope I did him justice, I really do. Please do me the kindness of letting me know what you thought. I wish I could give you a sneak peek of what's coming up next, but even I'm not sure. Hopefully it'll be really soon. In the meantime, please review and as always, thanks for reading!

Delilah


	16. The Little Prince

_Hello, readers! I did not forget about you, but I just returned from abroad and am itching to get publishing! My computer's hating me again, this time over software, so I'm borrowing another computer because I needed to get you guys this chapter!_

_I wrote several chapters when I was in Europe and, though my Tonks chapter is about 80% finished, it's on my laptop so I couldn't finish it up. Instead, I'm answering several requests with the long-awaited appearance of James Potter. Please take the time to tell me what you think, as I really tried hard on him. I tried to give him an unintentional sort of arrogance-he knows he's special, but doesn't honestly _try_ to shove it in people's faces; he just doesn't know any better. _

_Enjoy!_

The Little Prince

James was a gift from heaven.

That's what his mother always said. "You're my miracle baby, James," Dorea would coo, "you're my heaven-sent angel."

They had said it would never happen, the Healers. They had told Dorea that she and her husband were out of luck. No kids for them. They were simply too old.

But they were wrong, for James chose to make his appearance regardless of the test results and the dozens of opinions provided to the contrary. He was the apple of his parents' eye; their lives' most wonderful prize.

Such a child could surely be denied nothing. Charlus and Dorea lavished all the love, the attention and the presents they'd saved for a houseful of kids on their little prince.

While strolling through the park one fine Sunday, little James spotted a man selling balloons. "Daddy," he intoned imperiously, pulling on his father's sleeve. He pointed at the balloons. No words were necessary. Within five minutes, father and son were strolling from the park, a bright-red balloon clutched in the boy's fist.

While shopping on Diagon Alley with his mother one hot July afternoon, the windows of the ice-cream parlour beckoned to James. Holding his mother's non-package-laden hand as she struggled with her bags, he steered her purposefully onto a bench outside the shop. What kind of mother would she be, really, if she didn't reward such a thoughtful child with a deluxe triple-decker sundae with all the fixings?

However, as the years rolled by, Dorea began to worry about her son. Her golden prince seemed to be taking the silver spoon I his mouth as a facet of his anatomy: he was taking privilege for granted, and his resulting sense of entitlement was less than appealing.

"James, dear, won't you come with me to run some errands?"

"Aw, Mum, you know I'm no help with those sorts of girl things. Besides, you'll just end up having to buy me something," added ten-year-old James with a roguish wink.

Now, Dorea had always tried to do her best by her son. But over her dead body would her only son become yet another pushy, pampered pureblood playboy.

Dinner was the usual lively affair that night, with Charlus telling story after story about his friends at the social club and the rising price of dragon's blood at the apothecary. James, meanwhile, had them laughing uproariously at some joke or another. Dorea, however, was too troubled to be amused by this display of dazzling wit.

"Dad, there's a new racing broomstick at Quality Quidditch Supplies—just came out—you should see it!"

_Here it comes_, thought Dorea. It was as though a sales pitch had begun.

"Oh, really, son? What's the acceleration like?"

As James launched into a lovingly detailed account of the broom's many virtues, Dorea decided to put an end to the nonsense.

"You got a new broom for your birthday, dear, and that's not even a year ago yet," she interjected.

Both gentlemen at the table froze mid-sentence. James' mouth was still poised to form words and his father's fork had stopped midway to his mouth.

"But, Mum, this isn't just any broom, it's—"

"I said you already have a perfectly good broom. The subject is closed, dear." Dorea went to bed that night feeling the warm sense of accomplishment filling her up like hot chocolate on a cold day. Her little angel would surely think over this episode and revert to his charming, gracious self.

James was too well-bred to pout, at least where his mother could observe him. He was markedly different, though. Dorea saw it. Charlus saw it.

\He told no jokes at dinnertime. He asked no questions about his parents' days and answered any questions addressed to him in monosyllables.

The next day, he turned down an invitation to play Quidditch. "It just wouldn't feel right," he explained. "There's no use in playing if I can't do it right."

Dorea was starting to get just a little bit worried about her son. That is, until her husband dashed all of her anxiety with the sensitivity of a bat smashing a window.

He came home on Saturday night with a long, slim package wrapped in brown paper hidden behind his back. It was unnecessary, really; one glance told the family all they needed to know about its contents.

"Wow, Dad, you're the best!" cried James rapturously, hazel eyes shining enchantingly as he tore off the wrappings in a frenzy. "I've _got_ to try her out!"

"James, no flying that new broom in the—" but the rest of his words were drowned out by James' whoop of pure, unadulterated joy as he kicked off from the parquet floor and zoomed down the hall.

"Kids," shrugged Charlus, grinning sheepishly. "I just couldn't say no. after all, how often does a father get to buy his only son his fist state-of-the-art racing broom?" he added, before trotting down the hall in James' euphoric wake.

"Around here, about once every ten months," muttered Dorea, musing half-smiling if the day would ever come along that someone would put James in his place. _They'd have to be an exceptional individual, to be sure…to resist that boy's charm…_

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_Did you like it, readers? Please let me know! James was tough, but as I wrote to overcome my jet lag, he came out bit by bit. In upcoming chapters, you'll meet 'Dora' Tonks, shapshifting fashonista; Fred Weasley, man with a mission (this one packs a bit of a surprise), the Patil Twins (both identical and unidentical at the same time), and a certain bilingual _demoiselle. _More to come, _cheres!


	17. Chameleon

_It's me, readers! I feel so guilty about my computer troubles getting in the way of getting you your updates. I'm telling you, this machine hates me. A lot. I was planning on taking my laptop away with me next week to work on my updates, but considering its current state, that doesn't look like a viable option._

_Business before pleasure: I'm leaving on Sunday to visit the family. The whole family-my parents, brothers, sisters and I (yeah, there's a bunch of us)-are headed down to stay with my grandparents and other assorted relations (aunts, uncles, loads of cousins) back in Louisiana. We'll be down there 'til I believe Aug. 10th or 11th; I'm not sure when our return flight is. Since my computer is hating me, I doubt I'll be able to update from Acadiana, so my mission this week is to publish as many chapters as possible. Hope that's okay with everyone._

_And now, on to the chapter. I performed a little magic by extracting my Tonks chapter from the coils of my computer and I now present it to you for your reading pleasure. I see Tonks as a rather unconventional and spunky little girl. I used to play dress-up as a kid, but something tells me that Tonks, thanks to her Metamorphmagus abilities, would make the game much more interesting. If only I had that kind of leeway to create an entirely different look for each new occasion...the possibilities!_

_Without further ado, I give you chapter 17!_

* * *

Chameleon

Nymphadora Tonks may not have liked many of the things little girls of good family were 'supposed' to like.

She wasn't graceful. Where many young girls in the area were sent off to ballet lessons, Nymphadora would thunder through the house like a herd of bull elephants, knocking over vases and knickknacks and terrifying the cat. She was a bull in a china shop, her father laughed.

She detested the color pink. She would wear dresses without argument (largely to please her mother), but would shirk the first suggestion of ribbon or lace. Nymphadora's dresses of choice were brightly colored and artfully ripped or torn. She hated fuss.

Nymphadora played with dolls, but she couldn't stand the idea of gently coddling her dolly, putting it to sleep in a makeshift bed and preparing a bottle of 'baby formula'. Nymphadora's dolls would be captured by belligerent forces and await her rescue.

Like many little girls, Nymphadora liked makeovers. She would sit at her mother's vanity and experiment with the makeup she wouldn't be permitted to wear for years. Unlike most little girls, however, Nymphadora's makeovers were…memorable.

"Mum!"

Andromeda sighed. She looked up from the three sets of dress robes she had laid out on the bed, trying to choose one to wear to that evening's party, to see her slender ten-year-old daughter seated, as usual, at her vanity. The girl picked up a crystal vial of perfume, sniffed it gingerly, tried to put it down gently and in the process upended a box of hairpins.

"Yes, Nymphadora?" the girl frowned at the sound of the name, and her mother raised an eyebrow. "_Dora_, then," she amended herself.

"Why can't I come to the party?" she said with a pout.

"It's a grown-up party," began Andromeda.

"I can look grown-up!" she interrupted, her eyes dancing.

Andromeda decided to play along. "Oh, really?" she asked, suppressing a grin.

Dora positively beamed. "Watch!"

She pulled a mock-thoughtful face. "What color will I wear?" she pondered, eyeing the robes hanging in her mother's closet. "Blue?" she wondered aloud, holding up a set of much-too-long robes. Instantly, she rearranged her features as only Dora could. Andromeda tried to keep a straight face as her daughter transformed herself into a living porcelain doll. She had shoulder-length golden curls, big blue eyes framed by dark lashes and rosy cheeks. Her serene, angelic nature was unbecoming to the normally rambunctious Dora. It was rather unsettling.

Dora looked to her mother for her response. Andromeda wrinkled her nose and shook her head.

"No?" confirmed Dora, looking not one bit put off. "Okay, how about green?" she asked, indicating an emerald-colored set of robes.

The curly blonde hair turned a vivid red and swung, pin-straight and shiny, down Dora's back. Her eyes were no longer blue, but hazel; her nose, lightly sprinkled with freckles.

"No, too Weasley," supplied Andromeda.

On and on they went, mother and daughter. The pile of discarded robes on the bed (used largely for color-matching and overall inspiration) grew as the woman and girl shared yet another hearty laugh.

Dora cycled through countless appearances, each different from the previous one. A slender, chocolate-complexioned girl with long, elaborately braided hair. Chubby cheeks, glittering green eyes and a thick, brown mane with caramel streaks. Brown eyes, olive skin and a sleek black bob. A slight, onyx-eyed beauty with creamy pale skin.

From the downstairs sitting room, Ted heard the giggling and assumed his wife and daughter were engaged in some sort of game. He chuckled to himself, turned the page in his book and checked the clock on the mantelpiece. He repeated this ritual every fifteen minutes or so. Finally, at seven-thirty, he headed up to the bedroom to dress for the evening's party. It was a work function, nothing exciting, but it didn't hurt to impress the boss with a nice set of dress robes and an evening of good conversation.

Ted didn't make it to the closet. He stopped in his tracks, seeing his wife holding a set of her own dress robes up to a tall, round-faced strawberry blonde he had never seen before in his life. There was something familiar about the mischief in the girl's eyes, however.

"Dora? That's a new look, dear."

The blonde smiled, wrinkling her nose. Then her face began to fall as she said, "I guess I'll just go get ready for bed, since you won't let me come." As she spoke, she transformed into the Dora Ted recognized: small, brunette, with a pale, heart-shaped face.

Even though he could now see her as Daddy's little girl, his baby forever, the sight of his daughter in her disguise drove home the sharp realization: Dora was growing up. At ten, she wasn't a little girl anymore. His eyes met Andromeda's across the mess of robes on the bed and received silent confirmation for the suggestion he was about to make.

"Dora?"

Her hand froze a mere three centimeters from the doorknob.

"Would you like to come with your mother and I? It's a work party; it won't be that exciting, but if you want to come…"

He needn't have attempted to finish the sentence, for his daughter was beaming so brightly that the candle-filled lamps seemed to dim in comparison. _Who knew that something so simple could make her light up like that?_

Thirty-five minutes later, Ted Tonks stepped into the party with two elegant ladies on his arm. To his right, a tall, aristocratic woman with soft features and wavy brown hair—a smiling Andromeda. And on his left, the still-beaming Dora, who had finally settled on 'the look' for the occasion.

Dressed in a royal purple taffeta dress (mercifully without bows, lace or frills), Dora's heart-shaped face was entirely her own, with Andromeda's nose and Ted's eyes. Her brown hair was her own as well, though it was rearranged into bouncy curls. She was different, more dressed-up, but she was still their Dora.

She had found a look of her own. But that didn't make experimenting any less fun.

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_What did you think? The sooner you guys review, the sooner I can post the next chapter (perhaps even sometime today)! I have a couple of possibilities for the next chapter, but I have a feeling that it might include a certain Fred Weasley. No promises, though...there are a couple of chapters in the running._

_I'll leave it at that for now, as I'm hearing shouts of "Del! Did you take the dog out?" from somewhere. I go to my duties, and I'll leave you to yours, readers...reviewing._

_Yours, Delilah_


	18. The Namesake

_Hi everyone! Updates, two days in a row! It's like I'm dishing out these chapters as fast as I can while I know I'm still able to._

_There's a little twist about midway through this fic. Let me know what you think of it! I believe this chapter's a bit longer, which I'm sure will delight you._

_As I promised, here's a young Fred Weasley experiencing take-your-kid-to-work-day. As I await your reviews, I'm off to start packing and practice _mon français cadien_ a bit so my _grand-mére _doesn't ask what's wrong, that I won't speak French to her. Wish me luck!_

The Namesake

The sun had just barely begun to rise and turn the sky from velvety blue to a dull, fragile early-morning gray. The silence remained undisturbed even by the birds. It was very early.

Fred Weasley fidgeted in bed. He had been awake long enough to watch the moon and the evening star retreat from the sky as the weak early-morning sun made its appearance. It was a special day. Today, after countless attempts at begging, pleading and soliciting parental guilt, he would be visiting his dad's place of work.

As soon as he began to hear signs of movement from his parents' room down the hall, Fred slipped out of bed and dressed as fast as his fingers would allow him to. He ran downstairs, skipping the last three steps and planted himself firmly at the breakfast table.

His father arrived shortly after, pouring himself a cup of tea and surveying his son over the rim.

"So, today's the day, isn't it?" he finally said. Fred nodded maniacally with excitement. He didn't trust himself to answer aloud; he was so very excited that he was reasonably sure he'd be ill if he so much as opened his mouth. His father merely nodded.

Together, father and son set off. Other early-morning commuters heading in the same direction called out salutations.

"Morning, Mr. Weasley!"

"That your boy?"

"Yep, this is Fred, my son."

"Gonna be helping your old man out today, son?" asked the elderly wizard at the newsstand where they stopped for the _Daily Prophet_.

"Yeah," said Fred, a little hesitantly as he was unsure what "helping his old man" entailed. His dad gave his shoulder a supportive squeeze and the pair of them were off.

Left, then straight down a broad street lined with buildings in and out of which people were rushing, until the man and boy stopped in front of a tall building. The boy's eyes lit up in sheer delight upon seeing the noisy, vividly-colored window displays of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.

George Weasley unlocked the door to his shop and led his son Fred inside. He directed him to a small office and both hung their jackets on a hook behind the door, under a dusty old plaque that neither spared a glance.

Fred looked around. This office seemed to hold just a taste of the wonders that awaited him in the shop. There were stacks of purple cardboard cartons; shelves cluttered with shimmering powders and rattling boxes; bottle after dusty bottle of peculiar concoctions.

As his father stepped out to address a worker for a moment, Fred made his way around to sit behind the desk. _So this is what it feels like to be Dad,_ he thought. _Being the boss seems like fun!_

His thoughts, however, were interrupted by an inexplicable jolt in the region of his stomach. He reached out a hand to examine more closely the item that had caught his eye.

It was a wizard photograph, fairly old by the looks of it. The photograph showed two young men, wearing identical grins that, even in this old picture, seemed to be fueled with the joviality of countless pranks and jokes. Arms around each other, they waved furiously in front of a small storefront whose sign read 'Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes'. It was tiny, nothing like the massive joke and novelty emporium that could be found on Diagon Alley today. The banner above the door said, 'Grand Opening.' Clearly, this photo bore witness to the humble beginnings of a joke empire, its founders savoring the moment of triumph that at long last was theirs.

But it wasn't the thoroughly unremarkable little shop that had startled Fred. It was the photo's occupants.

The boys—for they were little more than boys, really—looked no older than seventeen or eighteen. They had the trademark Weasley red hair and enough freckles between the two of them to create a fairly accurate rendering of the major constellations of the Northern Hemisphere. And they were absolutely, positively identical.

The realization of who the boys in the photo must be hit Fred with the force of the Irish International team running speed drills. He hurried to replace the frame on his father's cluttered desktop, still not understanding why the picture would have such a profound effect upon him.

George Weasley re-entered the office to see his son ensconced in his chair, behind his desk. He opened his mouth to speak, witty comment at the ready, but the words died on his lips when he saw the inscrutable expression on Fred's face. Following the boy's initial gaze, George spotted the photograph, some six or seven inches away from where it had originally been.

Heaving a sigh and knowing that now was the moment he'd been preparing for, George gently closed the office door behind him. Taking the picture in his hands and crouching down beside his son, Goerge asked, "Do you know who these boys are, Fred?"

He knew; of _course_ he knew. Though he'd never met his dad's double, Fred had heard his long-lost uncle spoken of. However, he said nothing. In the past five minutes, his mouth had mysteriously achieved the dryness of the Sahara.

Pressing on, George continued, "That's me and my brother Fred, the day we opened this shop. You know your Uncle Fred—you were named after him."

Fred swallowed. "He…died…in the war, Dad?" he croaked, immediately regretting his choice of words, as George's smile faltered.

"That's right. He died in battle. You know," he continued thoughtfully, "your Uncle Fred was the best friend I ever had. We did everything together. It was like we were two halves of one complete person. When he died—"

Here, Fred looked away. If his dad was going to start crying, like grown-ups sometimes did when they talked about the war, Fred was sure he'd panic. George, however, took no notice of this and continued.

"—I felt like I was only half alive. I didn't want to come back to this shop, because it reminded me of all the plans we'd made together. Did I ever tell you how we started this shop?"

Fred shook his head, his curiosity getting the better of him. He'd heard stories about it, of course, but he could never be quite sure if they were true.

"Fred and I loved playing jokes on people. We thought, 'What could be better than making money on making people laugh?' That's how we came up with the idea for Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. We dropped out of school in our seventh year to open the shop. Your grandma was absolutely furious with us! She threatened to put us over her knee like she did when we were kids, if you can imagine it. at first, I thought it was all over, that she'd drag us straight up to school and that would be the end of it. but Fred, he sat Mum down and explained all the plans we'd drawn up for marketing and expenses, all the market research we had done…by the time Fred was through, Mum had given us strict warnings about what would happen to us if and when our 'ridiculous stunt' failed, then turned and left. The next time she stopped by, we'd taken on three new employees and completely outsold all our competitors. Fred saved Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes that night."

Little Fred cast wide eyes on his father. He'd never really heard him talk at such length about his brother. It made him sad to think he'd never got to know such a fascinating person.

"I'm sorry, Dad," he said, as carefully as he could.

"What've you got to be sorry for?" George asked, catching his son by surprise. In lieu of further explanation, George handed Fred the photo. The two boys in it were pulling ridiculous faces and pretending to insert their fingers in places where fingers didn't ordinarily belong.

"Does Fred look like the kind of bloke who'd want us crying over him and being all upset? Hislifetime goal was to become famous enough to have a toilet seat modeled after his own face. It's terrible that you never knew Fred, but it's not too late to find him in you. You've got that name for a reason, kid."

With a roguish twinkle in his eye, George walked to the door. As he stepped out of the door, he tossed a package over his shoulder to his son. "Knock 'em dead, son!" he called behind him.

Fred looked down at the box in his hand. _Trick Wands Deluxe—Fluster friend and foe alike with our deluxe assortment of genuine, realistic trick wands! Imagine the looks on your victims' faces as their wands transform into pairs of briefs, emit highly amusing sounds, shoot out of their hands and beat them around their heads! A Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes product._

Grinning, Fred rushed out to find an unwary individual to prank, not stopping to notice the plaque still hanging over the office doorway that shook slightly as he charged out of the room, door slamming in his wake.

_Fred Weasley_

_Mischief Managed_

_May 2, 1997_

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* * *

_I really, really hope you enjoyed it. I only got 2 reviews, I believe, for my last chapter, so I'm kinda hoping for more. I don't care if they're anonymous, just please review. Please?_

_By the way, what did you think when it turned out to be Fred II instead of fred I? Did you see it coming. Looking back, I think the title kind of gave it away...so much for subtlety..._

_Next update will be soon, as soon as I decide which of my finished chapters (Patil twins, James Potter II, or an unfinished chapter) to post next. Feel free to let me know who you'd like to see; maybe I can get it to you today!_

_Yours from New York (at least for the meantime),_

_Delilah_


	19. Mischief Managed

_Well, readers, I suppose it's a record. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday...and another update. I would like to sincerely thank my reviewers once again. My last chapter received seven reviews and two Story Alerts. You are all too kind, and, in spite of some personal trials I'm getting through at the moment, I am genuinely touched by your interest._

_I also want to thank one of my reviewers for pointing out that the Battle of Hogwarts was 2 May 1998, not 1997. Numbers are not my strong suit. Even while cooking, I prefer to work on instinct. This chapter's title is drawn from the last chapter's ending, ironically._

_Travel countdown is four days and counting. My packing's coming along nicely, so I've had some time to edit chapters. In accordance with the votes and requests I received, this chapter will feature James Potter II. I think I enjoyed writing him more than his famous namesake, but I'm not sure. _

_Please check the AN at the end of the chapter. There you will find a list of characters I'm considering for future updates. I would like it if you could inform me of any others you'd enjoy seeing-in your review, or a PM, doesn't matter. Any of your ideas are welcome, too-don't shrink from saying something along the lines of "I think it would be cool if Fred Weasley II went to WWW and saw a picture of the other Fred" or something similar. I won't make any promises, but I can do my best._

* * *

Mischief Managed

James Potter wandered aimlessly down the hall. He was bored. Bored, bored, _bored_. He had flown his broom around the back garden for an hour, looked half-heartedly at his comic books, placed Lily's doll on a high shelf to watch her jump for it, and teased Al about his first name, his middle name, and his insistence that there was something lurking under his bed until his mother Ginny had shooed him away with instructions to occupy himself…_without_ antagonizing his siblings. What fun was there in that?

The bathroom door was open. James stuck his head in, contemplating ways he could amuse himself in there. _I could play navy in the bathtub again_, he thought, but the memories of Ginny's shrieks the last time he'd launched his bathtub fleet killed that idea.

He passed the living room. Lily was still trying to reach her doll. Al brushed past James with a stepstool, clearly on his way to come to their sister's rescue. James shook his head in disgust as he continued on his way.

It wasn't like he hated his siblings; he didn't, not in the least. But they were younger than him and consequentially got on his nerves. After all, he wasn't a little kid anymore; would be going to Hogwarts in little more than a week. Amateur hour was over. He, James Sirius Potter, had reached the big leagues.

Besides, pranking them was just too much fun.

A door was ajar in the hallway. James peeked through the crack. The study was generally given a fairly wide berth by the Potter children, as there was little in there to interest them. Lily sometimes went in there to play school with her dolls, and Al often found their father in there, where the two of them embarked on those strange, serious discussions that James was not privy to, but other than that, the room was largely a mystery. And as such, it was too good an opportunity to be passed up.

James tiptoed into the study, carefully closing the door over until it was only ajar to the degree it had been when he stood on the other side, in the hall. His eyes swept the bookcase, the pictures on the wall and the armchairs before landing on the desk.

_Dad's desk,_ he thought to himself. He had never really seen the contents of its drawers. None of the kids had. Sure, they had seen their father pulling whatever it was that they needed at a given time out of its oaken depths—sweets, a bandage, paste or tools to repair broken toys, extra parchment and crayons for drawing, you name it. In this capacity, Harry's desk served as a sort of magical grab-bag from whence came all sorts of handy surprises. But never had his children been allowed to sift through its contents to their hearts' content.

Keeping his ears pricked for the sound of his mother and siblings approaching, James seated himself in the desk chair and pulled out the top drawer. It contained a full assortment of objects: a leather-bound book, a velvet box and a stack of what looked to be Chocolate Frog cards among them. James suppressed a laugh upon seeing the card on the top of the deck: _Ronald Weasley: Auror. Ronald Weasley is a notably courageous wizard. He is widely known for his close friendship with Harry Potter, and for assisting him in the defeat of the Dark Lord Voldemort. Ronald currently works for the Ministry of Magic as an Auror. He also has helped run Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes (the hugely successful joke shop started by his twin brothers) and enjoys Quidditch. Today, Ronald lives with his wife Hermione and their children Rose and Hugo._ He pushed aside the stack of cards and turned his attention to the velvet box, which contained an Order of Merlin, First Class awarded to his father for his defeat of Voldemort. The leather-bound book turned out to be a photograph album, consisting of page after page of pictures of his late grandparents, including his namesake, the first James Potter. James idolized his namesake, who was said to be a great prankster, and secretly hoped to be just like him someday, contenting himself in the meantime with practicing his antics on Al and Lily.

Rather disappointed with the ordinary (though nonetheless interesting) contents of the top drawer, James resigned himself to searching each additional drawer in turn. In one, he found the remains of an ancient letter that appeared to have been written by his grandmother Lily ages ago, when his father was only a baby. It was missing a page, and was accompanied by half a photograph. _What could anyone possibly want with half a letter and half a photograph, anyway?_ he wondered to himself.

In another drawer, James stumbled across some old keepsakes from his parents' wedding and other special occasions. There was a lock of what looked to be Lily's hair and a birth announcement introducing Albus Severus Potter, 6lbs., 3 oz. (_Ugh, burn that, can't have that lying around next time I try to convince Al that he's adopted from a family of Dark wizards that were all killed off in the war)_, as well as some early photos of James as an infant.

There was a rusty old pair of Omnioculars and a velvet-covered program from the finals of a Quidditch World Cup played decades before but still famous for its historic finish. A signed copy of _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore_, inscribed to someone called 'Batty' (_well, Dad _is_ a bit eccentric at _times) by that journalist his dad hated so much. An old Snitch…_wait a second, WHAT?_

All in all, it seemed to James that his father had a problem with hoarding useless, unimportant keepsakes. He had been through nearly every drawer in the desk and had not found anything more interesting or worthy of his attention than perhaps the photo album. _Maybe I would've been better off tying all the laces of Al and Lily's shoes together, after all. Dad needs to get a pro in here to get rid of all this old junk._

Resigned to the fact that his dad's desk had not lived up to his expectations at all, James decided that he might as well check out the last remaining drawer. It was way at the bottom of the desk, easy to overlook.

James pulled open the drawer with a slight tingle of anticipation. It contained a single piece of what, in James' opinion, must have been the most ancient parchment still in circulation outside of a museum. He unfolded the parchment, hoping for something—_anything_—interesting.

It was completely blank. Reaching his decision to go and replace the contents of his mother's tea set with some Nose-Biting Tea Cups, he made to crumple up the prehistoric blank parchment, evidence of his father's insanity. But before he could do so, words appeared on the parchment.

_Mr. Padfoot would like to enquire what the hell you think you are doing, sir?_

James felt his jaw drop. "I—I'm just throwing this old parchment out. I thought it was worthless…"

_Mr. Moony insists that there must be something wrong with any young man who is unaware of the treasure he currently holds in his hands. _

_Mr. Prongs concurs with Mr. Moony, and would like to add that this could be the luckiest day of said young man's life._

James was floored. _A talking parchment! This is awesome! _"I'm J-James Potter," he began .

_James Potter?_

_Mr. Wormtail would like to register his surprise at reading so familiar a name after all this time._

_Mr. Padfoot begs Mr. Wormtail to shut up._

_Mr. Prongs presents his most sincere compliments to Mr. Potter, and kindly requests that he tap this parchment with his wand._

A wand…here, James would need every bit of stealth he could summon. His brand-new wand, along with the rest of his school supplies, was wrapped in brown paper and nestled at the bottom of his new Hogwarts trunk. He had never used the wand before, but he wasn't about to pass up this opportunity.

About to head to his room, James froze. _Wait a second,_ he thought. _Should I really take this parchment without Dad knowing? Won't he know if it's gone?_

Making up his mind in a split second, he folded up the miraculous parchment, hid it in his pocket, closet the drawer and stole out of the room, careful to leave the door open a crack.

James walked to his bedroom, trying not to walk too fast or look guilty. He closed the door, dug into his trunk for his wand, and sat down with his back against the door, wand and parchment in his hands.

He smoothed the parchment out on the floor in front of him, re-read Mr. Prongs' instructions, and tapped the parchment lightly with his wand. Nothing happened.

_Mr. Padfoot wonders if Mr. Potter is perhaps up to no good?_

"Up to no good? Well, I like to play pranks, and—"

"James! Are you in there? Let me in, you've got my Exploding Snap cards and I want them back!"

"Hold on, Al!" James turned back to the parchment, feeling slightly foolish. "Sorry about that, it's just Al—my little brother, Albus Severus Potter—yeah, I guess you could say I'm up to no good."

_Mr. Moony suggests that Mr. Potter __solemnly__swear__ it…_

James whispered, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good…"

_While tapping the parchment, kid!_

He tried again, this time tapping the parchment as he spoke. Ink lines spidered out from the point his wand had touched, forming what looked to be a map. Only a couple of tiny ink figures were moving. _Messers. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs, Purveyors of Aid to Magical Mischief Makers are proud to present: The Marauder's Map_, the title read.

"What's this?" asked James breathlessly, excitement coursing through him.

_Hogwarts. Mr. Wormtail assumes that Mr. Potter is a Hogwarts student?_

"I'm starting in a week!"

_In that case, Mr. Prongs wishes Mr. Potter the best of luck in using his considerable ingenuity and imagination to cause all sorts of mayhem at Hogwarts. Don't forget to tap the map when your __mischief's managed__…_

"_Excellent_!"

"James! Time to wash up for dinner! Now!"

James tapped the map with his wand, murmured "Mischief managed," and stowed the map and wand lovingly on top of the folded robes in his trunk, neglecting to close the lid and glancing back at his treasure over his shoulder, just in time to see Messers. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs' final message:

_Albus Severus? Mr. Prongs feels that Mr. Potter's parents must really hate his brother._

_Mr. Moony would like to point out to Mr. Prongs that Mr. Potter's parents are probably relations of his, dimwit!_

_Mr. Padfoot insists that at least they seem to care for the mischievous Mr. Potter, having given him such an illustrious name._

_Mr. Wormtail agrees, and would like to express his sincere high hopes for Mr. James Potter._

James wasn't exactly sure what he could expect at his new school. But he was sure it was going to be brilliant. He had a name to uphold, after all.

* * *

_Your thoughts, readers? Please review and share them! As promised, here follows a list of possible future chapter ideas. Feel free to weigh in on them._

_The Patil Twins-sort of an antithesis to the Weasley Twins chapter. Don't expect to see them working in tandem._

_Dean Thomas-no, I haven't abandoned him. His sisters make an appearance for some good, old-fashioned Muggle fun._

_Teddy Lupin-sort of bittersweet, considering he's an orphan. Also features Andromeda._

_Victoire Weasley-only 3 paragraphs written, but it's coming along nicely._

_Fleur Delacour-based on one of my younger sisters. _

_Albus Severus Potter-a new twist on the classic 'middle child syndrome'_

_Sirius & Regulus Black-I'm thinking of giving them seperate chapters; still tossing ideas around. I don't like Sirius, so this will be tough._

_Luna Lovegood-had to change my plans for her, so I'm back to square 1. Accepting suggestions. _

_Bellatrix Black-not entirely sure what I'm going to do, but I'm dying to give the future-sociopath a try._

_I've also had requests for Roxanne Weasley, Lily Luna Potter and Hugo Weasley. Still trying to think of stories for them, but I definately want to give each of them a try._

_Any other ideas, or suggestions for these guys? Like I said, I have no hesitation to keep this fic going as long as needs be, for whatever insane amount of chapters we can dream up together. I'm also not opposed to more off-the-beaten-path ideas (still considering Peter Pettigrew, to round out the Marauders, or Dudley Dursley, simply because he's so...Dudley. I may even attempt a young Tom Riddle, who knows...?)_

_Please, please let me know your thoughts on the matter. It helps me make decisions on such things and flesh out new chapters._

_Until we speak again,_

_Delilah_


	20. The Difference

_Hello, Potter fans! I'm back for Day 4 of Updates Week with the Patil Twins. Not all twins are like the Weasley twins. Parvati and Padma are a good example._

_On a side note, two things:_

_1) I know I had a request for Dean this chapter, but he's still a WiP. I was working on him yesterday when I was struck by inspiration and spent 3 hours working it into the beginnings of a very unexpected, very outside-the-box chapter I hope to get out soon._

_2) Chapter 20! I just want to thank all of this fic's readers, whether they'd been following it from the beginning, or just discovered it recently. Your reviews and support mean everything._

* * *

The Difference

Parvati and Padma Patil were twins. Identical. Exactly the same.

Mother dressed them in matching outfits and cooed over how sweet they looked. Daddy called them his little bookends.

Twins. They looked alike. They dressed alike. Sometimes, they even sounded alike.

But they were not the same person.

Mrs. Patil loved having twin daughters. She loved picking out their matching outfits and plaiting their hair into identical braids. Their father was right; they T_were_ like bookends.

Padma Patil was no bookend. A bookworm, perhaps, but not a bookend. Only seven years old, she already resented the way adults regarded and Parvati as a single entity. _I'm not the same_, she thought. _I'm not Parvati, I'm me! Can't you see I'm me? Don't you __care__?_

Parvati loved to play dress-up. Padma disregarded the tulle and feather boas that so entranced her sister. She preferred to don her mother's midnight blue dressing gown, twirl before the mirror in it once or twice to appease her vanity, and stretch out on the divan in her father's study, luxuriating in the feel of the velvet against her skin and breathing in the heady aroma of his priceless collection of books. Sometimes, she would take a large, leather-bound volume off its shelf and turn the thick yellowish pages, trying to make sense of the large and unfamiliar words.

Parvati was bright enough, too. So many people underestimated her, seeing her as a future trophy wife, perhaps, but Padma knew her sister to be no fool. Not unless it suited her own purposes, of course.

Parvati found the study to be as cramped as a tightly-insulated cell. The dusty old volumes made her sneeze. Parvati liked color and light, the feel of silk curtains or satin bedsheets under her fingertips, the pleasing effect that royal purple made when paired with kiwi green. Parvati dressed her dolls with an artist's eye. She created her own 'perfumes' by mixing her mother's scents with crushed flower petals and aromatic herbs.

Padma liked butter pecan ice cream, served plain. Parvati liked strawberry with rainbow sprinkles. Padma was a night owl, up until all hours reading under the covers. Parvati was up with the sun. Padma was deliberate; Parvati, spontaneous. Yet none of these glaring differences made any difference on the eyes of those who would see them as a unit.

Especially in light of The Abomination (as Padma liked to call it). Mrs. Patil's mortal sin and grievous error.

It had happened on a Tuesday. They were in the kitchen. Mrs. Patil was preparing dinner as her purposeful daughter absentmindedly turned the pages of a worn paperback.

"Parvati, dear, pass the salt."

Salt in an open wound, it seemed. Padma scowled. She didn't even bother to correct her mother as she handed her the salt cellar.

Full of determination, seven-year-old Padma Patil sorted through the kitchen cupboards for the shears her mother used when cooking. She caught her reflection in about half a dozen pots and saucepans.

Identical girls. Different characters, different interests, different smiles even, obscured by identical clothes and identical plaits. Her grin betraying perhaps a hint of desperation, Padma raised the shears in her right hand.

Her breathless laughter brought a curious Mrs. Patil running into the kitchen. She halted to a stop to see Padma surrounded by shorn raven locks, now sporting a choppy, chin-length bob.

"Padma, sweetheart…your beautiful hair…_why_?"

"Because now you can always tell the difference, Mummy."

And from that day forth, she always would.

* * *

_Oooh, Padma doesn't mess around! I've been mistakenly called by everyone else in the family's name at least once (including the dog), but to be fair, I'm not a twin, so that must be fairly tough._

_Not sure who's up next, but I'm hoping to continue in the current tradition and update tomorrow. Of course, if there's someone you'd like to see next, let me know and if they're ready, I'll oblige and post them. _

_'Til tomorrow, then,_

_Delilah_


	21. A Bedtime Prayer

_Friday of Updates Week has arrived, readers, and I have something a little somber for you. Little Teddy may be a cutie, but he does have some dark shadows lurking in his life. I'll skip ahead to the dedication and save the technical business for the end._

_This emotional chapter has two sources of inspiration: __Little Golden Owl__, by __**Kalia Clyde**__ and chapter 2 of __Mothers__ by __**Winterlude**__. It is to them that it is respectfully dedicated, with my compliments._

_For everyone who's loved and lost. The ones we love never truly leave us, not when they live on inside our hearts._

* * *

A Bedtime Prayer

The sky had darkened and the stars, glittering like tiny diamonds, were out. The nighttime routines were over: dinner eaten, table cleared, floor swept, bath drawn, pajamas on. There was only one thing left to do, the most important thing of all.

Teddy Lupin, fresh and clean and smelling of bath soap, walked sleepily down the hall to his bedroom. His grandmother Andromeda followed two paces behind. She pulled down the covers, kissed her seven-year-old grandson goodnight and tucked him in. "Don't forget to leave that on your coaster before you fall asleep," she admonished, gesturing to the glass of water clutched in the boy's hand. "And say your prayers."

Teddy nodded obediently, called "I love you," and smiled as his grandmother, smiling in return so that the laugh lines appeared at the corners of her eyes, closed the door over softly. He listened to the dying sounds of her footsteps as she walked down the hall to tidy the bathroom.

Teddy took a large, steadying gulp of water and placed the half-full glass on the coaster on his bedside cabinet, just as he'd promised he would. The coaster and the cabinet upon which it sat, along with most of the room's furnishings, had once been his mother's. The room itself had also once belonged to Nymphadora, though now it bore the marks of sheltering a new generation of the Tonks family tree. It had been freshly repainted in bright yellow and blue, and, at Teddy's insistence, stars, suns and crescent moons now hung from the ceiling, as though the roof opened onto the heavens above, and said heavens had been drawn in crayon, like an impressionist painting. The old wooden furniture had been refinished to the point of looking brand new, all for Teddy. New throw rugs, toys and clothes in the closet, but essentially the same place it had always been. Perhaps just a little emptier.

Teddy, of course, would never really appreciate how the house was emptier and quieter than it had once been. He had not been born yet to miss Ted Tonks reading the paper aloud at the breakfast table, or his own mother Dora knocking over vases as she charged through the living room on her way out to play as a young girl. He had never known them, not really. But that didn't stop him from feeling their presence.

After carefully setting the glass down, Teddy climbed out of bed, listened for his grandmother outside the door (he didn't need to be overheard, after all) and knelt carefully on the rug beside the bed. Andromeda had not raised Teddy to be an exceptionally devout churchgoer, but evening prayers were among the devotions she insisted upon. She, like many to survive catastrophe, saw the value in giving thanks for that which had been spared and remembering that which had been lost. Teddy had been taught the same.

Clasping his hands in front of him on the patchwork quilt, Teddy tried to close his eyes in reverence. This, however, proved distracting, and he soon found he had opened his eyes to gaze out of the second-story window beside his bed, which opened out onto the garden. His eyes (hazel today) found the starry heavens, the location to which he directed all of his prayers.

"Dear God," he began, reciting his usual litany, "please bless my grandma, and my godfather Harry, and Hermione and Ginny and Ron and all the Weasleys. Bless my family and my friends and look after them, and please bless me and help me to be a good boy."

It was here that Teddy would pause each night, think for a moment, and strike out on his own. Tonight was no exception. Hidden behind the door in the hallway, a pile of folded bath towels clutched in her arms, Andromeda leaned in closer to hear what her grandson would say tonight.

"Hello, Mum. Hi, Dad. Are you doing all right up in heaven? It was raining down here this morning, so we couldn't go out today. Does it rain in heaven, too?"

"Grandma went shopping in the afternoon and she brought me home a big chocolate bar. It made me think of you, Dad, because Harry says that chocolate was your most favorite thing. I always think about you when I eat it, and I wish I could share a piece with you, 'cause it's my favorite, too."

"Mum, I don't want you to worry, but I tripped and fell down the stairs before. I tripped on my own shoelaces. It hurt a little, but I was mostly okay. My knees are all black and blue now, but Grandma says it will clear up right away. She says you used to trip and fall all the time, Mum. Does that mean I'm like you? Did your knees clear up?"

"I don't know if you remember, but my birthday's on Saturday. I really wish you could come. Grandma's cooking a big dinner and she says we can have whatever I want, even ice cream. We're having company, too, and I'm making party hats for everyone. I'm gonna have a chocolate cake with vanilla icing, but Grandma's gonna turn it different colors, 'cause I like changing colors just like you, Mum."

He paused for a second, and Andromeda, desperately torn between her desire to hear the rest and the pain it caused her, lowered herself to her knees to listen at the keyhole.

"Everyone's asking me what I want for a present and I really don't know what to say. What should I ask for?" Teddy seemed to wait a few seconds for a reply, but soon continued. "I saw a lot of really cool stuff in Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes and the Quidditch store, but there were just so many cool things, I couldn't decide. I guess I'll be surprised."

He paused again, and when he next spoke, it sounded as though his honesty embarrassed him.

"Do you believe your wish comes true when you close your eyes and blow out the candles, Mum? Do you, Dad? I keep on wishing the same thing every birthday, but it hasn't come true yet. Why won't my wish come true? Is it impossible?"

At this point, Teddy looked surreptitiously to the left, then to the right, as though checking for eavesdroppers. He lowered his voice until it was barely more than a whisper.

"Dad," he breathed, "Grandma tells me that if I tell a wish, it won't come true, but if I tell you my birthday wish, do you think maybe you and Mum could work on it for me? I wish…"

Andromeda held her breath in anticipation

"…I wish that you and Mum would come home. It's so lonely without you. I want to know if you're a lefty like me, Dad, and if Mum can roll her tongue like a straw, like I can. Do you think you could maybe try? My party starts at 3 o'clock, so don't be late."

Without warning, Teddy switched back to his brisk, rehearsed tone. It was unsettling.

"…And God bless my Mum and Dad, and watch over them in heaven forever. Amen."

He climbed into bed, pulled up the sheets, turned off the lamp and buried his face in the sweet-smelling pillowcase. As he drifted off to sleep, he muttered into the pillow, "Goodnight, Mum and Dad. I love you always."

Crouched in an undignified heap on the other side of Teddy's mostly-closed door, Andromeda stuffed her fist in her mouth to stifle the sobs that racked her body and threatened to escape her. Tears cascaded down her cheeks as the words of her grandson's prayer echoed in her numb brain.

* * *

Andromeda Tonks placed her glass of water on the coaster on her nightstand and hung her dressing gown on the hook behind her bedroom door. She knelt on the throw rug beside the bed she had once shared with her husband, whose side of the bed had remained untouched ever since the day he had left her in order to protect his family. She folded her hands in front of her and intoned the prayer she ended every night with.

"Ted…Dora…and Remus, if you can hear me, look after Teddy and let him know—somehow—how much you love him…let him know…"

* * *

_Well, readers, I would love it if you could let me know what you thought about that. In a review, preferably, as I only got three (and a lovely Favorite Story tag) for my last chapter. I'm not sure if tomorrow, Saturday, will comprise part (the Grand finale, so to speak) of Updates Week. I'm hoping it will. Reviews may convince me. _

_By the way, Teddy's bedtime prayer (before he starts talking to his mum and dad), minus the names, is pretty much word-for-word the one I made up as a little girl. _

_So, if I can update tomorrow, which I'm hoping to do, I am relatively sure that it will either feature Dean (at long last!) or the mysterious chapter that came to me the other day._

_Until then, folks, enjoy!_

_Delilah_


	22. Snowbound

_Hello, readers! Alas, Updates Week..._c'est bien fini_. I'm just finishing up some final preparations for my trip, stacking my luggage in the hall for the car service driver in the morning (_early_) and you...well, if you're reading this, you're preparing to start chapter 22 of this story! Can you believe we're at 22 chapters already?_

_He's late, but he's finally here. Yes, it's Dean Thomas, whose chapter I teased you with (unwittingly, I promise) way, way back at the end of chapter 10. He was supposed to be chapter 14 or so, but I was stuck after two paragraphs, so I kept putting him off until I could get a better handle on Dean. It is per Blonde Pickle Mule's request, so this chapter goes out to her! I know we're all hoping for some West Ham-loving football fun, but I haven't had a winter chapter yet and this idea struck me unexpectedly._

_Speaking of unexpected ideas, when I return from visiting _ma famille_ down in _la belle Louisiane_, the newest chapter I'm posting will feature a character I haven't mentioned as a future chapter yet. She's appeared in a past chapter, though. I'm sure everyone will be surprised, in a good way I hope. Also look out for a Creevey bros. chapter sometime in the future, since I've gotten a request for them._

_Enjoy, and see you in a week or so! Until then, _au revoir_ and happy reading!_

* * *

Snowbound

Laughter rang through the London street. It was Saturday morning, and a rich, white carpet of snow had fallen overnight, blanketing the city's customary grime with what looked like sparkling icing.

It seemed many people had decided against venturing out this morning, opting instead to stay in with a steaming mug of hot chocolate and a scone. Occasionally, however, a car would wend its way down the street, taking the snowdrifts cautiously, only to be ambushed by a raucous group of teenage boys, armed with a veritable arsenal of freshly-crafted snowballs.

Three children made their way down the front steps of an apartment house. The eldest boy stopped every few steps, looking over his shoulder to make sure the boy and two girls behind him could make it down okay. Between the four of them, the children were dressed in so many heavy layers that they could scarcely move.

"Dean, wait up!" cried the smaller boy, who had attempted to step on a smooth expanse of flat, tightly packed snow and fallen through, discovering to his chagrin that the snow was about a foot deep and not nearly as solid as it appeared. The girls giggled and the boy called Dean turned back to fish his brother out of the snow.

"What do you want to do first?" asked Dean, his breath rising in a frozen fog before him as he looked at his siblings.

"Let's make snow angels!" cried the older of the girls. She was about two years younger than Dean, but nearly as tall. Her long, dark hair was parted into two long, elaborately curled pigtails that peeked out from under her knit hat.

Dean cast an eye around, looking for some flat expanse of snow—preferably untouched snow—where the four of them could make snow angels. The middle of the street was out of the question, and the sidewalk would not long be snow-covered enough to suffice. Already, local boys had begun ringing doorbells and offering to shovel the walk and steps for a small fee. There was only one place, really, where the snow would serve.

"The park!" said Dean suddenly, reaching his decision. At ten years old, his mother had recently decided that Dean was old enough to walk down the street to the nearby park on his own, and at this early hour it was unlikely that anyone would stop them or bother them.

The siblings headed down the street a bit, then turned into the wrought-iron gates of the park. The stopped, transfixed by the sight that met their eyes.

The park looked positively magical. Every surface was covered with thick, powdery snow that glittered in the weak winter sun. There was a vast, empty expanse of pure, freshly fallen snow covering what would be a grassy lawn in the springtime.

The children ran down towards the snow, their laughter echoing in the stillness. Little Daniel picked up a double handful of snow and tossed it in the air, where it mingled with the few, lazy flakes that were still wending their way down. Samantha jumped on Dean's back, wrapping her arms around his mufflered neck from behind, her braids bouncing as the two of them overbalanced fell into a snowdrift.

A snowball whizzed past Dean's left ear. The children looked up to see a group of older boys, standing on a hill not far from them.

Dean knew these boys. They were a few years older than he was, rowdy troublemakers who had been throwing ice at cars about a block away for the past hour or so. Apparently, they had tired of their sport.

"Hey, boys!" yelled the biggest member of the gang, obviously their leader. "Moving targets!"

"Run!" yelled Dean, and he and his siblings scurried behind a bench in a wildly transparent attempt to take shelter.

"Go away, you big, stupid prats!" yelled Samantha, prompting her big brothers and sister to all cover her mouth with gloved hands.

Dean peeked over the backrest of the bench. The boys were laughing, taking aim at their hiding place. He turned to his siblings, full of determination.

"We're gonna have to fight our way out," he said slowly. "Are you ready?"

Three sets of eyes met his, all in silent accord. Crouching low, four sets of hands started forming a small pile of snowballs. They took careful aim and fired, not bothering to check if their snowballs hit their target or not.

"They're throwing snow at us—those little kids!"

"Let's get 'em!"

The snowballs flew thick and fast. Rosemary looked at the dwindling pile of snowballs, tossed her pigtails pack over her shoulders and tapped her big brother on the shoulder. "Dean, we're almost out of snowballs! What're we gonna do?"

Running out of ammunition in the heat of battle would prove disastrous. Dean looked down to see a lone snowball left, which was quickly scooped into Danny's hand and lobbed across the frozen wasteland.

It was all over. Dean prepared to grab his siblings and make a run for it, not stopping until they reached the safety of their home, where the hot chocolate and his favorite cozy, football-print pajama pants would surely be waiting. That is, until he chanced another glance down.

The spot where their scanty arsenal had sat was now occupied by a veritable mountain of perfectly formed snowballs. The brothers and sisters eyed the pile apprehensively for a minute—where had it come from?—before re-launching their assault on the neighborhood ruffians.

The gang of bigger boys' eyes widened in shock as a hail of snowballs (for the pile didn't seem to grow smaller, no matter how many were thrown) rained down on them. Coated in a thick layer of ice and slush, they finally conceded defeat, signaling their surrender by turning tail and running out of the park. One of the boys yelled "Let's get out of here!" as they fled.

Laughing in exhilaration, Dean and his brother and sisters sunk into the snow in a many-armed hug, awkward due to their layers of winter clothes. "Snow angels?" asked Rosemary with a grin. "Sure," said Dean.

As the three younger kids staked out their spots in the snow, Dean cast an eye back at the still-impressive pile of perfectly spherical snowballs. It was weird, really, how they had showed up there in the nick of time. Almost like...magic.

* * *

_Did you like it? Please send me your reviews and let me know. I may not be able to update without my computer, but I can still read and reply to your reviews via my Blackberry. And yes, I'm still taking requests, so keep 'em coming. I have to get down to some serious writing when I have some spare time on this trip, as I've only got one finished chapter left to post._

_Allons, cheres...got to go. Don't forget to review...even anonymously, it means a lot!_

_Delilah_


	23. Fortune Most Foul

_**I'm back! And I missed you all!**_

_**Very long explanatory note follows:**_

_This chapter came to me as a mental image: that of a young girl sitting in the fortune teller's wagon at a carnival, as the old woman spells out dire predictions in her future. The question in my mind, however, was: who was the girl? I must have changed my mind three or four times before going back to write the beginning of the chapter, the part describing the carnival. The images seemed so nostalgic, evoking a time gone by. I needed a character who would've grown up around a certain time in the past (around the wartime era); as it's assumed that my protagonist for this chapter was born sometime around the 1930s, she fit fairly well. And the tragic direction of Eileen's adult life made for a startling and dramatic fortune. _

_One possible mistake, however. Every source I checked lists Eileen Prince as a pure-blood. However, I couldn't find any mention of her as such in canon except the following quote in regards to Eileen's son:_

"He'd play up the pure-blood side so he could get in with Lucius Malfoy and the rest of them…He's just like Voldemort. Pure-blood mother, Muggle father…ashamed of his parentage…the Half-Blood _Prince_…" _(__Half-Blood Prince__, American hardback edition, p. 637). _

_Since the source of this quote is none other than Harry, I think it's safe to say it isn't foolproof, especially since he knew absolutely nothing about Eileen Prince until about five minutes before reaching this enlightening conclusion. Harry's not always our most accurate channel of information, so I think it's reasonable to assume that Eileen may not have been pure-blood at all. It would even make sense for her to be at least a half-blood, as she lived in close enough proximity to Muggles to end up marrying one. It's a possibility, at least…a possibility that I will be working from for the purposes of this chapter, as I doubt an old pure-blood family would take their daughter to a Muggle carnival._

_Thanks for putting up with my explanation, readers. Enjoy!_

* * *

Fortune Most Foul

The carnival was in town.

The inhabitants of the town saw the trucks and wagons coming in, all headed to the empty fields outside the outskirts of town. They came bringing the rides and sideshow attractions and games of chance. Men erected tents and booths. They hung colorful flags and banners, advertising the carnival's various attractions. At night, the electric lights blazed bright and the carnival barkers lured the townsfolk in with promises of wonder and fun.

The children of the nearby town all begged their parents to take them to the carnival, for pocket money to buy as many rides on the Ferris wheel as they could afford and as many sweets as their stomachs could bear.

Eleven-year-old Eileen Prince was not like the other children in town. She did not go to the local school; rather, her mother taught her at home. She was a skinny, sullen-looking girl whom the other children found rather strange. She didn't come out to play much and, as a result, hadn't many acquaintances.

But that didn't mean she was very different from the other children. And when she saw the carnival workers setting up the sideshow, the carousel and the midway, she asked her mother if she, too, could go.

Mrs. Prince was not so sure this was a good idea. It was a Muggle carnival, after all, packed with...Muggles. And besides, some of that carnival food looked positively alarming.

But looking down into her daughter's pleading eyes, Mrs. Prince found herself agreeing and, after the dinner dishes were cleared away by magic, washed by magic and dried by hand (herein laid Eileen's contribution to the cleanup), mother and daughter pulled on their coats and walked down the street towards the sounds of the laughter and the music.

It looked like a scene out of a Muggle motion picture. The carnival barkers stood, in their striped jackets and flat strw hats, calling out the various attractions, luring the crowd into the various tents. Boys threw balls at towers of milk bottles, winning stuffed animals to hand, blushing shyly, to their dates. Sweethearts shared kisses atop the highest cars of the Ferris Wheel, the girls expertly reapplying their bright red lipstick as the cars swung closer to the bottom. Children, arms laden with balloons and popcorn, pointed and laughed at the jugglers and clowns, lined up grinning to ride the bumper cars and finally sulked, grudgingly, as their parents pulled them back towards the edge of town.

Eileen Prince and her mother walked cautiously through the crowd, their highly-polished shoes growing dull in the trampled dust of the midway. Eileen's dark eyes darted from the rides, to the games, wondering what to do first. Her gaze wandered off, in the direction of the carousel when something else caught her eye.

In a dark corner, behind the carousel and the popcorn vendor's booth stood an old horse-drawn wagon whose bright paint was chipped and peeling in places. It was hung with paper lanterns and strange windchimes made of fragments of colored glass. Eileen pulled on her mother's sleeve and gestured to the wagon. The woman and girl approached slowly.

_Madame Desdemona, Gypsy Enchantress_, read the sign outside the wagon. _Tarot_-_Palmistry_-_Potions. Unveil the Mysteries of the Future!_

Eileen gazed up at her mother. "Can I try it, Mother?" she asked, as sweetly as she could manage. "Please?"

Mrs. Prince wrinkled her nose slightly. She lowered her voice, leaning in so that the girl could hear her. "I don't know, Eileen…these Muggle fortunetellers are often charlatans, little better than crooks…" But seeing the desire in her daughter's thin face, her voice trailed off into nothingness. She sighed, fished some coins out of her purse, snapped it shut and followed her daughter up the steps into the rickety wagon.

It was dark inside, and it smelled of incense, dust and faded perfume. The windows were curtained with moth-eaten velvet drapes that had fallen out of style several decades before. The tiny space was crowded with innumerable locked cabinets and minimal furniture: a small, round table covered in faded cloth surrounded by several mismatched chairs was in pride of place. Mother and daughter sat down and glanced around apprehensively. Eileen fidgeted with a small hole in the fingertip of her only pair of clean, white gloves. _Stay still_, she told herself, _Mother always says that ladies don't fidget. Besides, she's only a muggle fortune teller..._ She resorted to studying her distorted reflection in the milky crystal ball. It was, she thought, quite amazing, how the misty fog seemed to swirl inside the ball.

Madame Desdemona emerged from the opposite side of the wagon. Her hair was elaborately twisted and braided under a spangled headscarf and her dark, clever eyes seemed to sparkle out of the darkness of the wagon. Gold coins tinkled and glittered along the hem of her sweeping dress and her skirts rustled as she sat down, opposite the Prince ladies, in a chair upholstered in faded, worn red velvet.

"Welcome," she said, in a low and tremulous voice. Her clients did not answer, but she seemed to sense their purpose in her wagon. She needn't ask.

Madame Desdemona studied mother and daughter. Which was more in need of her prophetic gifts? Her eyes found Eileen's eager ones. "May I perhaps read your cards, my dear?"

Mrs. Prince snorted derisively. Eileen nodded mutely.

The gypsy woman moved the eerily glowing crystal ball to a nearby shelf. She produced an ornately carved wooden box, from whence she removed a deck of gilt-edged tarot cards. Shuffling the deck with long, agile fingers, she laid out the cards expertly on the worn silk runner whose colored embroidery must once have been bright. Eileen leaned in closer, the candlelight reflected twice in her dark eyes. The spread complete, Madame Desdemona sat back to peruse the reading. A beringed finger landed on the first card. Eileen blushed slightly, eyeing the nude figures, their hands entwined.

"The Lovers…a relationship in your future. Beside them, the King of Swords, inverted."

"What does it mean, that he's upside down like that?"

The old woman frowned slightly. "He signifies a man in your life, or—more likely—who will someday be in your life. A cruel, cold man; tyrannical, domineering."

Eileen gulped. The fortune-teller moved on to the next card in the spread, beside the despotic King.

"The Two of Cups…an offer of marriage."

_Let's hope it's not to that horrible King_, thought Eileen.

"The Three of Coins…a new home. Perhaps also a pregnancy."

"Let's hope _that's_ not for a while," supplied Mrs. Prince, "as Eileen's only eleven." She muttered something about "not wanting any scandalous insinuations", eyeing her daughter sharply.

Madame Desdemona's brow furrowed at this point. Mother and daughter exchanged puzzled glances.

"What is it?" asked Eileen, eager to hear more.

The woman pursed her lips slightly. "This is not a good spread, my dear." She indicated a cluster of cards. The first showed a beggar man and his wife, sheltering in a Gothic church.

"The Five of Coins signifies misfortune—ill health, or destitution."

The next card also featured coins—happy women, at repose in a garden. Like the King, it was also upside-down.

"Right-side up, the Ten of Coins is an indicator of a good marriage, prosperity; inverted, like you have it here…it is a sign of domestic disharmony."

A Knight on a horse bearing a long pole—the Knight of Wands—was facing upside-down, heralding conflict and confrontation.

The remaining cards featured swords prominently. They were ominous-looking specimens, thought Mrs. Prince. _What kind of tragedies lie in Eileen's future, anyway?_

One showed a distressed man in bed, weeping disconsolately into his hands. Nine swords hung on the wall behind him. "Depression. Illness or injury to someone close to you. Powerlessness and pain." The old woman's face was inscrutable; Eileen's was apprehensive.

Another card displayed a most distressing image: a dead man, his body pierced with ten swords. Eileen pointed to it with a trembling finger. "Is that as bad as it looks?" she asked, struggling to keep her voice even. _It's just for fun,_ she tried to convince herself.

"Does it _look_ like a good omen?" asked the gypsy woman sardonically. "The man was slain with _ten _swords, after all. The Ten of Swords implies great pain and misfortune, inevitable mortality."

The last card was equally self-explanatory. A grief-stricken woman knelt before a heart pierced by three swords. Misery. A broken heart.

Mrs. Prince stood, deciding at once that this litany of woe was not doing anyone any good. Depositing a handful of coins on the table, she pulled her daughter by the hand, down the steps and out of sight.

As they departed, Eileen tried valiantly to rid her mind's eye of that last, powerful image. A heart pierced by three swords. _My heart? Broken?_

"Do you think what she said will come true, Mother?"

Mrs. Prince eyed her daughter. Her usually morose expression had been replaced by one of anxiety, as if the gypsy woman's tarot reading had upset her greatly.

"Don't be ridiculous, Eileen. As I told you, Muggle fortune-tellers haven't the faintest idea what they're doing. Had we stayed a minute longer, she probably would've tried to sell you some tonic to ward off the 'inevitable' bad luck."

Eileen nodded silently, still not convinced. In the shadows of her wagon, listening to the pair of them, the fortune-teller chuckled to herself.

"'Muggle fortune-teller', indeed," she chortled. Directing a wand at the tarot spread still littering the table, the cards sprang into an immaculate pile and stored themselves neatly in the carved wooden box, monogrammed with an elaborate, gilded C.T.

Cassandra Trelawney may have been a very famous and well-respected Seer in _her_ world, but even at her advanced age, she couldn't resist the fun of posing as a gypsy fortune-teller and giving the Muggles a reading they'd never forget. And, of course, the occasional unsuspecting witch or wizard.

_Though_ _sometimes_, she mused, _they might be better off never knowing of what their future holds. _What awaited that skinny, dark-haired girl…_a fortune most foul. I hope, for her sake, the Fates were mistaken…_

_

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_

What did you think, everyone? I never expected to try writing Eileen Prince—God only knows what her childhood was like—but it just came to me, and it seemed crazy not to give it a try. Please review and give me your thoughts on this chapter. Who knows, if I see that you liked it, I may just start churning out chapters featuring members of the older generation of the HP universe.

_On another note, while I had an awesome time on vacation, it's great to be back! I'm exhausted, though—last night we went to a _fais do-do, _a traditional late-night dance, and it seemed like every time I tried to sit down for a minute, someone was calling "Allons danser!" or handing me another plate of étouffée. It was extra hard to get up early for the flight this morning, but the thought of updating got me out of bed. And, awesomely, I came up with no fewer than __five__ new chapter ideas! I started work on two of them and I hope to share them soon._

_Next chapter: Next-gen, all the way! I'll leave it up to you guys (since you put up with my insane ANs): would you rather see __**Hugo Weasley**__ or __**Lily Luna Potter**__ next chapter? Cast your vote in your review!_

_As usual, thank you all sincerely for your support!_

_Delilah_


	24. Insomnia

_For you, my readers, I present: **the longest chapter yet!**_

_Before__we__begin__, I ju__st __want__to__ thank **dancergirl7, Louey06, Jezabel Raewin** and **prizbokc** for their reviews of chapter 23. I really appreciate it, everyone. As for the rest of you readers, why aren't you reviewing? Were my last 23 chapters really that awful? I'd even like an anonymous review, if you wish to stay 'in the shadows'-I won't be able to reply, but I'd at lest see what you think!_

_On a similar note, thank you to **A random person** for your anonymous review of ch. 22. I usually PM my reviewers to let them know I received their chapter suggestions, so I'll just tell you right here that I've added Justin, Hannah and Susan to my idea box. Thanks for your awesome suggestions!_

_Lily Luna won the most votes from reviewers, so she will feature in this chapter, with Hugo to follow in ch. 25. Please review this time! Before you do so, however, read the AN at the end of this fic; I have a request. Nothing onerous. Enjoy!_

* * *

Insomnia

As quietly as she could, Lily Potter pulled the box off the shelf. It was labeled '20th Ann. Memorial' in her dad's untidy writing. She placed it in the middle of the rug in the study and carefully, one by one, took out the items within. The items that had kept her from drifting off to sleep.

She had come across them by accident, that afternoon. She hadn't meant to find them; what interest could a ten-year old girl have in such things, really? But they had burned a hole in her mind's eye, and after hours of tossing and turning in a haunted, desperate pseudo-sleep, she had tiptoed into the study yet again to satisfy her curiosity.

Heaps and heaps of old photographs. They were enclosed with a note, which read:

_Dear Harry,_

_Thanks for your last letter! It was so kind; when I forwarded it to my mum, she started crying. I was looking for pictures of Colin to send you for the memorial, when I came across these. I had no idea Mum had saved them all this time; I was sure she'd thrown them out along with all the other old junk when Dad died last year. Anyway, do you remember them? They're the photos Colin sent home during his first year at Hogwarts. I thought they might be nice for the memorial, but if you can't use them, it's no problem. By the way, consider this my RSVP—I know my mum, for one, wouldn't miss it for the world. _

_All the best,_

_Dennis Creevey_

The photos did indeed show scenes of life at Hogwarts; Lily giggled slightly when she spotted one of her mother, only a year older than Lily was now, waving ebulliently at the camera. She almost laughed outright as she watched a good-looking blond wizard try to wrestle her twelve-year-old father into the frame. The photos were tied together with a decrepit old string, into which one last picture had been crammed, marginally less old than the rest of them. A teenage boy with mousy brown hair and a camera around his neck, seated between a redheaded girl Lily recognized immediately as her mother at age fifteen or so, and a distinctly dizzy-looking blonde, who was wearing earrings which resembled radishes. All three looked nervous, but excited. She eyed the inscription on the back: _Colin, Ginny and Luna, OWL week_. _That must be the Colin the letter's talking about…I wonder whatever happened to him?_

Lily returned to the box's contents. She found a Dumbledore Chocolate Frog card and a newspaper clipping that seemed to have been written in honor of the old wizard after his death. _So _that's_ who Al was named for,_ she thought. Albus Dumbledore looked nice, a little like Father Christmas (only skinny) or what Muggles imagined a wizard _should_ look like. Lily decided that his twinkling blue eyes, even in a picture on a Chocolate Frog card, simply invited trust.

Another _Daily Prophet _clipping had clung to Dumbledore's. Lily smoothed it out eagerly. The picture that headed the article showed an extremely handsome boy who looked to be in his late teens. He was grinning at the camera, radiating a sense of excitement and bliss that warmed Lily up inside. Her heart went cold, however, upon reading the headline below his picture: _Hogwarts_ _Champion Killed In Final Task._

A few sentences from the ensuing article jumped out at Lily. _Cedric Diggory, 17…killed in a freak accident during the final Task of the Triwizard Tournament…tied for the victory with Harry Potter…Potter insists that Diggory was, in fact, murdered by the long-defunct Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named…survived by his parents, Amos and Kate Diggory, of Ottery St. Catchpole…_

A tear escaped Lily's eye and slid down her nose. The handsome, laughing boy in the photo…he was only _seventeen_. Did he know, then, that he might never come home?

Another clipping was folded up with Cedric's. It looked newer than the previous clipping. Lily looked down at it carelessly. _Diggory Honored As First War Casualty_. She scarcely read past the lead.

_In a press conference yesterday, Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt reversed the Ministry's official ruling on the 1995 death of Triwizard Champion Cedric Diggory, 17. At the time of the tragedy, the Ministry ruled Diggory's death to be due to an accident in the course of his own actions taken during the Final Task of the 1994 Triwizard Tournament. _

_Fellow champion Harry Potter, who witnessed Diggory's tragic death, insisted from the start that Diggory had in fact been murdered by Lord Voldemort, who was later revealed to have returned to power on that very night. For nearly a year, Potter's story was thoroughly discounted, and even after his version of events was accepted by Ministry officials in the light of Lord Voldemort's resurfacing, the official ruling was never changed._

"_Cedric Diggory was, in every way, an inspiration," said Shacklebolt, speaking from the Ministry at yesterday's press conference. "He was a shining example of all a Hogwarts student could and should be. To the very end, he displayed the qualities most honored in our society—bravery, fairness, magical skill. It is only fitting, therefore, that we should honor him not as a young man tragically lost through some horrific accident, but as the first casualty in a War pitted against the very heart of evil…_"

The article continued through three more columns, but Lily couldn't bear to read more. She turned instead to a pile off to the side that she hadn't yet investigated.

One photo seemed to have been removed from a wall using a Severing Charm. There were still remnants of ripped wallpaper adhering to the back of it. On top of the wallpaper fragments, in what she recognized as her father's handwriting, the words: _Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs_. Lily flipped the picture over. Four smiling, laughing boys in Hogwarts robes. One of them greatly resembled her father, but the picture was far too old to have been taken during his Hogwarts days. _That must be Grandpa James when he was at school_, she reasoned. _He really _does_ look like Dad…_

There was a veritable pile of artifacts in what Lily came to refer to as 'James' pile'. Most were pictures, featuring the same four boys engaged in various activities, not all of them innocent; the later pictures contained a pretty woman and a smiling baby—_Grandma Lily and Dad_, Lily thought with a jolt. Her fingers brushed the photographic cheek of her namesake. More tears.

Some letters were bundled with the pictures of the first James Potter. Most were little more than a few lines, apparently scribbled in class. Others were longer.

_Padfoot,_

_SHE SAID YES! Finally, FINALLY Lily Evans agreed to go out with me! Save this letter, Sirius, because someday it will be a historical artifact. A living legend. Documentation of the single __greatest__ day in James Potter's life!_

_Thanks a million for everything you've done in helping me win my fair Lily. You are my best, my truest friend and I will always remember that. Don't worry, I'll keep up my end of the bargain. Someday, when Lily and I are blissfully wed, you'll be godfather to our first kid. Maybe all our kids. Hell, if Lily lets me, I'll even name him after you. What do you like better, James Sirius or Sirius James?_

_Love you like a brother,_

_Prongs_

_My darling Lily,_

_How can I begin? Words cannot describe the way I feel about you. You are the light of my life, the thrill of my days. You are my sun and my evening star. _

_I know we started out kind of on the wrong foot, but the day you agreed to give me a chance was the second greatest day of my life. Today will be the greatest, if you agree to be my wife._

_I promise to devote each and every day of my life to your happiness. I will do everything in my power to take care of you, protect you, comfort you and love you with all of my being. I will never desert you._

_If you marry me, Lily, you will have everything your heart desires. You will never want for anything. You will never be alone._

_Marry me, and I will treasure you forever. I will make all your dreams come true. I will spend each day proving that you made the right choice when you chose to take a chance on me._

_Lily, I love you. Never in my life could I imagine living without you. Will you marry me?_

_Yours, now and forever,_

_James_

This letter—_so romantic, _thought Lily—was folded neatly on top of an old invitation requesting the honor of your presence at the wedding of Lily Evans and James Potter, and a birth announcement for their son, Harry. _Dad looked very much like Al_, thought Lily.

There was a small, cardboard box interred at the very bottom of the 'Memorial' box. It looked like a Muggle shoe box. Lily opened it cautiously. The paper on top, neatly folded, appeared to be a letter.

_Harry,_

_I am not sure what I should say to you, after all these years. It has been a very long time. _

_I know nothing I can write here could atone for, as you put it in your letter, 'seventeen years' solid dislike'. That is largely my fault, I suppose._

_I never hated her, you know. Lily. I don't know how you found out that we were once close, that I even secretly hoped to join her in her…world…but as you know, I suppose I can't deny it. She was my sister._

_I suppose it was so easy to treat you…the way I did…because when I looked at you, it was a constant reminder of all that had happened between us. Who knows, if none of it had ever happened…perhaps she wouldn't be gone._

_This box was given mistakenly to me when my mother died. It was found in her attic; I took one look at it and threw it away. Forty minutes later, I retrieved it from the rubbish bin and stashed it in my own attic. I didn't have the heart to get rid of it, the only token I had of hers…but I also didn't have the courage to look through it. _

_When you mentioned that you were preparing a memorial, for those who had been lost in your…war, this box immediately jumped to mind. I know it would be put to better use honoring them both, rather than sitting in a corner of my attic next to that box of Dudley's baby clothes. I read your letter twice before going up to get it. Then I opened it, at long last._

_I only looked through this box's contents for ten minutes before sending it off to you. She is gone, after all…they both are. I didn't think of it for the rest of the day. But I dreamed of them that night. _

_Anyway, I hope these old keepsakes help you with your memorial. Thank you for your letter._

_Aunt Petunia_

Feeling slightly numb, Lily lifted the items out of the box. Piles of ancient, faded pictures. Most seemed to be Muggle pictures, for none of their occupants was moving, but there was still a certain magic to them. Lily's heart jolted as she studied the one on top of the pile: a red-haired girl, her arms wrapped around a dark-haired by who looked both pleased and startled by her display of affection at the same time. The girl had Al's eyes, or rather Al had the girl's eyes, as (judging by the kids' clothing in the picture) this girl was years and years older than Al. More and more pictures of this pair, sometimes grudgingly accompanied by a sour-faced blonde girl. In an unfamiliar, elegant script, the back of the fist photo read _Lily and Sev, best friends, summer 1970._

It was _her_, again. The other Lily.

There were other items, too; birthday cards, ticket stubs from a trip to the zoo, an assortment of dried flowers that 'the first Lily' had apparently picked, then tried to press in a book. There were also letters.

_Dear Sev,_

_By the way, I forgot to ask…should I bring my record player to Hogwarts? I finished packing just before dinner, but I just remembered it. Do you think I should try and stick it in my trunk?_

_Lily_

_Dear Lily,_

_Record players won't work at Hogwarts. Don't worry, we'll find plenty of other things to do for fun there. See you tomorrow on the Hogwarts Express!_

_Sev_

_Dear Sev,_

_Where were you today? I thought you were going to meet me at the play park around noon? You never showed. Are you mad at me for something? Did I do something wrong?_

_Lily_

_Dear Lily,_

_I'm so sorry I couldn't make it today. I _(here, Lily tried to decipher a series of crossed-out explanations)_…tripped on the stairs this morning. It was really clumsy; I didn't see that my shoe was untied and did something weird to my arm. Don't worry, it's the left one; I never use that one anyway. My mum had to take me down to the clinic to get it set, though, so I couldn't go out today. Would it be okay if we played tomorrow? I hope you're not mad at me for leaving you there alone._

_Sev_

_Dear Tuney,_

_Hello from Hogwarts! Oh, Tuney, this place is amazing! My dormitory is in a tower, on the side of the castle, and... _(The rest of this letter had been ripped off and discarded, probably by its recipient).

A sudden noise behind her startled Lily. She dropped the stack of letters she had just barely begun to read and turned around to see her father, dressed in his pajamas, looking down on her bemusedly.

"Lily…it's a quarter to three in the morning. What are you doing up?" Harry seemed to take in his surroundings for a moment before amending himself. "What are you _doing_?"

Lily couldn't tell if he was angry or not. "I found this box this afternoon," she began, "by accident. I was looking for _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ on the bookshelf. I…got curious, and…I started looking through it, and…" How could she explain the heavy feeling these old pictures and letters had interred in her stomach?

"…I couldn't sleep. They stuck in my head. Their faces…it's all so sad, Dad."

Harry sighed. He reached down and gently wiped away the single tear that was coursing down his daughter's cheek. "I know, Lils…I know it is. I know exactly how you feel. It keeps me up at night sometimes, too…I see their faces, I hear their voices. Some of them I knew so well…some I'd barely even got to know."

Lily leaned up against her father's shoulder as he reached down and lifted a picture from the top of one of the piles.

"Remus and Dora…these are Teddy's parents, Lils…his mum and dad. They fought in the Battle of Hogwarts." He didn't need to say what had become of them. The pain in his eyes said it all.

Lily scrunched up her eyes, wondering what it would feel like to lose her mum and dad, all at once. Her father seemed to be lost in thought, and Lily reminded herself that he _had_ lost both his parents, all at once. Harry, however, was investigating the rest of the box's items.

He shuffled, slowly, through several photographs, donated by the friends and family members of the deceased. Lily saw several of her late Uncle Fred, more often than not accompanied by his twin, George (although one depicted Uncle Fred at some sort of school dance, dancing with none other than Aunt Angelina!). There were pictures of people Lily could not recognize, including some grown witches and wizards who her father identified as members of the Order of the Phoenix and a positively frightening man with a seriously scarred face and a vivid blue eye.

Dozens of lives, prematurely cut short. Dozens of stories.

"Dad?"

"Yes, Lily?"

"I wish none of this ever had to happen."

Harry's face betrayed a small smile. "Aw, Lils…nobody ever wishes for these things to happen. Sometimes…sometimes you've just gotta make the best of a horrible situation." He indicated the assortment of photos, papers and keepsakes that surrounded the, littering the floor.

"None of these people _wanted_ to die, Lily. A lot of them could have avoided it, probably. But they chose to fight for a better tomorrow, where kids like you could grow up without having to worry about whether they'd be allowed to go to Hogwarts, or being attacked by a werewolf because their dad turned down the Death Eaters, or any number of awful things. They chose to fight for _you_, even if they didn't know you yet…and that's why they're heroes. That's why we remember them. So don't be sad, Lils…I told myself long ago that there's no use feeling guilty, because I know that wherever they are, they're happy now."

Lily's tragic expression slowly cleared, like the sun peeking out from behind black clouds after a rainstorm. "Do you really think so, Dad?"

"I know so. So when I'm trying to go to sleep, and I start thinking about all these people, I picture Fred and Cedric, zooming around a Quidditch pitch somewhere. Dobby's probably off making a Harry Potter scrapbook or something. My dad, Remus and Sirius, off on some adventure, making mischief as usual. Dumbledore, browsing around a Muggle candy shop and buying hundreds and hundreds of lemon drops. Even my mum and Snape, they're friends again, catching up on lost time since forgiving everything that came between them. They're happy, Lily. They _have_ to be. They've earned it."

And with a reassured nod, Lily got to her feet and took three steps in the direction of her room. She stopped, turned and jumped back over the stacks of papers, wrapping her arms tight around her father and burying her face in his warm, sweet-smelling pajamas.

"I love you, Daddy," she said, her voice a little muffled in the fabric of his pajama shirt. "I'm glad I've still got you here with me."

And as she snuggled beneath her blanket, Lily did indeed see the faces of those she'd read and heard so much about, but this time she was filled not with sorrow, but a profound sense of peace. She knew somehow, that what her father had said was true, and whispered a nearly-silent "Thanks" into her pillow before drifting off into an untroubled sleep, full of dreams of handsome boys playing Quidditch and old men buying Muggle candies.

* * *

_Did you like it? I know this one was a little sad, but I think it had a sweet ending. Please, please review-even a word or two!-and tell me what you think._

_Here's my request of you. I made a chart of upcoming chapters. The ones that I've already started writing I will not include here. The following chapters have yet to be begun. Please think about these ideas and, if it's not too much trouble, send me a suggestion for what can happen to each character. Of course, if there's a character you have an idea for who's not here, send them to me anyway...nothing better than more chapters! Please give it a try. I could really use your help. _

_Characters:_

_Bellatrix Lestrange_

_Luna Lovegood_

_Justin Finch-Fletchley_

_Roxanne Weasley_

_Sirius Black_

_Hannah Abbot_

_Thank you all, from the bottom of my heart, for sticking with this fic this long, for all your reviews, alerts and suggestions and just for being there. _

_Delilah_


	25. Caregivers Can't Afford Mistakes

_Should I say it? I'm afraid to jinx myself...oh, all right..._

_**Seven **reviews for the last chapter! I was so happy, I couldn't believe it. I was a little afraid to post that here, however, because whenever that happens, I only get two or three for the next chapter. Do you think we could buck the trend?_

_Thanks to those seven reviewers-**Louey06, dancergirl7, Jezabel Raewin, prizbokc, mandya1313, Blonde Pickle Mule **and** Bri P. **All of your suggestions for future characters were absolutely incredible! I wrote two new chapters, completely from scratch, after reading these (and started two more, taking my in-progress count up to 6)! See, I told you reviews and suggestions are like catnip for my brain!_

_Well, Lily luna may have won more votes than this young man, but I think he and his hapless, loveable dad will win your hearts. After the bittersweetness of Lily and Harry, a little bit of hilarity should be just the thing we need. Enjoy!_

_Oh, one more thing-there may be a mistake in here. I don't know if they have Vicks Vapo-Rub in the U.K. It's been in use here in the States since at least when my grandparents were kids, maybe longer...but I don't know if it's sold overseas. This may sound random, but once you read the chapter you'll understand why I used it; usually I just cut out details that may not work._

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Caregivers Can't Afford Mistakes

It was all Hermione's fault.

She had gone out to "run some errands," insisting to her nervous husband that she'd be back before he knew it.

That was three hours ago.

"Dad?" came a pitiful, wavering voice from somewhere upstairs. "Dad!"

Ron sighed and directed his steps towards his son's bedroom. Little Hugo was sitting up in bed, or at least attempting to. Wadded-up tissues littered the floor where they had fallen out of the overflowing garbage pail, and Hugo's bedside table was barely visible under a glass of diluted apple juice, two boxes of tissues (one empty, one full) and a full array of medicines.

Hugo blinked, his eyes adjusting to the lamplight, and looked balefully at Ron. His hair was messy, standing out at odd angles. His nose was all red, his complexion pasty beneath the freckles. He looked utterly miserable.

"Dad?" Hugo repeated. He was so congested that it came out sounding more like 'Dab'.

"What's up, little man?"

"I cat breed troo by dose."

Ron frowned slightly. Languages had always been more Hermione's forte, but he resigned himself to piece out this foreign-sounding sentence, finally realizing that Hugo was telling him that he couldn't breathe.

"Oh! All right, son, let's see what we can do about it…have you tried blowing your nose yet?"

Hugo raised his eyebrows at his father in a way that reminded him slightly of Hermione and pointed wordlessly to the veritable mountain of used and crumpled tissues beside him.

Ron kicked himself mentally. _Think, Ron, think…this can't be too hard, Hermione does it all the time…what does she do when the kids are ill?_

"Hold on, Hugo, I'll be right back."

Ron rummaged through the medicine cabinet over the sink, pulling out potions and bottles of medicine, then promptly stashing them inside the sink basin when they weren't what he needed. When the only items left in the cabinet were his razor and a package of Muggle adhesive bandages featuring some ridiculous cartoon sponge, he admitted to himself that he must have missed what he was looking for and called down the hall to his son.

"Hugo…what does Mum do when you or Rosie fall ill?"

"Mum bixes up a botion do bake us veel bedder."

_She 'bakes veal better'? Who _cares_ if she can cook? Oh…'mixes a __potion__'…_

Ron frowned slightly again. Potion-mixing was never one of his gifts. Hermione still teased him about that time in their fourth year when he was _supposed _to be creating an antidote to a poison he'd be given at random. As Ron had spent the entire period trying to find out who Hermione's date to the Yule Ball was, rather than focusing on his work, he had somehow managed to increase the lethal capacity of the poison he'd been working with by 132%.

_Even if I try making him a Pepper-Up Potion, he'd probably mutate, or explode or something,_ Ron reasoned. He fully accepted that he was no Half-Blood Prince; potion-brewing was out of the question.

Ron looked hopelessly around the tiny bathroom, trying to think of an alternative. His eyes fell on the garish cartoon sponge bandages. He wondered to himself why they even purchased the foul Muggle things…_what's cool about a talking sponge, anyway? I personally find it pretty creepy…Hermione _does_ want them exposed to Muggle stuff, but there's no need to go overboard…_

Ron snapped out of his reverie. This was it. _Muggle_ _stuff_. He could use some of the Muggle medicine Hermione kept in the house to treat Hugo.

Hugo turned a page in his picture book, waiting with growing impatience for his father to come in with one of those potions that Mum usually made, which fixed him up so well. Being ill was no fun. Rosie got to run around outside, jump in the piles of fallen leaves that were scattered around the garden and accompany their mum on her various errands, perhaps earning herself a treat in the process. He, Hugo, got to languish in bed, feeling truly awful.

A noise in the vicinity of his door made Hugo look up.

Ron was standing in the doorway, wearing a truly bizarre assortment of garments. He had on a kitchen apron and a pair of thick gloves that Hugo usually saw his parents use while gardening. Into the pockets of the apron, he had stuffed a veritable assortment of strange Muggle items from around the house: a turkey baster, a corkscrew, a ballpoint pen, three matchbooks and a bendy straw. On his head was a flowered shower cap, and he had procured what appeared to be a surgical mask from some unknown location. He looked utterly mad.

"Dad?" asked Hugo uncertainly.

"We're gonna play a game," explained Ron. His voice was muffled behind his mask. "A new game. I'm gonna be one of those Muggle Healers…what are they called again?"

"Doctors?"

"Yeah, that's right…and you'll be my patient. Sound like fun?"

Hugo nodded uncertainly. Of their parents, Ron was, as he and Rose covertly acknowledged, 'the fun one', so whatever Ron had up his sleeves couldn't be too bad.

"Okay," said Ron, edging into the room. "Let's see." He peered deeply into Hugo's glassy eyes, laid a gloved hand across the boy's forehead and asked him to open his mouth and stick out his tongue. Hugo did so, coughing violently. Ron turned his attention to the Muggle medicines on the bedside table.

He carefully read each box, bottle and jar, looking for something that would alleviate coughing. "Aha!" he cried out in triumph, holding a tiny jar in his hand. "Vicks Vapo-Rub!"

Opening the jar of Vapo-Rub, Ron sniffed it gingerly. "Phew! This stuff smells awful!" He looked at Hugo, who shrugged. "Better you than me, son," he conceded. Spooning out some Vapo-Rub, Ron said, "Open up!"

"No, Dad," protested Hugo, putting his hands up to prevent Ron from spoon-feeding it to him. "You don't _eat_ it; Mum rubs it onto your chest."

"Ohh…" Ron unbuttoned his son's pajama top and deposited a great glob of the Vicks Vapo-Rub onto Hugo's chest. He then proceeded to spread it out, thoroughly coating both Hugo and his own dragon-hide gloves in the process. Finished, he sat back to admire his handiwork. Hugo's torso was now buried underneath a fairly thick layer of glutinous jelly.

"Hold on," said Ron, as he was struck by sudden inspiration, "we don't want to stain your sheets with that stuff…"

Hugo listened as his father's footsteps disappeared into what sounded like the kitchen. Ron reentered the bedroom a minute later, carrying a roll of Muggle cling wrap of the sort that Hugo's Muggle grandparents wrapped leftovers in. Hugo barely had time to wonder why his parents kept all this Muggle stuff in the house before Ron set to work.

Ron ripped off a section of cling wrap about two meters long, then instructed his son to sit up. Hugo did so, bemusedly_. Is this really what Muggle doctors do with their patients?,_ he thought, as Ron wrapped the cling wrap around his son's middle, again and again until there was none left. Crunching slightly, Hugo laid back down in bed. Ron turned his attention to the array of Muggle medicines.

"Now, let's see…this one's for fever…this one for that stuffy feeling..." Holding the bottles in his hands, Ron debated which symptom took precedence. Deciding on the spot to treat all of Hugo's symptoms at once, Ron pulled a glass he'd brought from the kitchen out of the pocket of his apron. He poured a generous helping from each of the medicine bottles into the glass, then swilled the mixture around with a swizzle stick he'd found in a cupboard over the sink. Hugo raised an eyebrow as his father stirred seven times clockwise, then added one counterclockwise stir.

"What's dat for, Dab?"

"Well, your Uncle Harry once told me in Potions class…"

"Dis isn'd Botions glass, Dab…"

"Oh, yeah…well, bottom's up, son…"

And Ron handed his son the bizarre concoction, which had turned a sickening brown color.

Hugo held the glass at eye level, steeling himself to take a sip. He gulped, raised the glass to his lips, and…

"Hugo! What on _earth_ are you drinking?"

Hermione Weasley stood in the doorway, laden with shopping, a small girl bobbing around behind her, trying to see in. Hugo lowered the glass as his mother dropped her bags, swept in and whisked it out of his hand. Her eyes then fell on Ron, who was still standing at his son's bedside looking inexplicably strange.

"Ron, _what_ are you wearing?"

"I'm a Muggle Healer! I thought, if I made it fun for him, Hugo wouldn't mind taking—"

"What were you feeding him?"

_"Muggle medicines."_

"You don't mix them all together, Ron!" She sighed, pulled the shower cap and surgical mask from her husband's face, and said, "Ron, honey, go in the bag downstairs from the Apothecary and get out the bottle of Pepper-Up. Pour out a _child-sized_ glass for him…like a juice glass, Ron." She leaned in and rested a cool hand on her son's fevered brow.

Ron nodded and headed downstairs. As he searched the kitchen cupboards for a juice glass, he heard Hermione's voice issue from their son's room.

"_Ron! __Why_ is Hugo marinated in Vicks Vapo-Rub and wrapped in an entire roll of cling wrap?"

* * *

_Well, readers, what are your thoughts? I'd really love to know how you felt about Ron's attempts at Muggle healing. He really does try hard._

_And so, before my final reminder to review, I offer you another choice. For the next chapter: **Ginny Weasley** or **Andromeda Black**? Cast your vote in your..._

_REVIEW! It's good for everyone involved: the reader (you) speaks their mind, the author (me) gets some feedback, the characters (see ch. 1-25) get to see their names in print...again..._

_Anyway, don't perpetuate the chapter-following-a-chapter-that-got-a-lot-of-reviews jinx!_

_On va se 'oir, cheres,_

_Delilah_


	26. You Don't Own Me

_Hello again, everyone!_

_First of all, let me thank last chapter's 7 reviewers: **Louey06, dancergirl7, Blonde Pickle Mule, mandya 1313, Bri P., T. XD **and** prizbokc. **I don't know what I'd do without you._

_Secondly, I received 6 votes on this chapter. It was a tie: 3-3, so in the end, I flipped a coin. Andromeda will feature in this chapter and Ginny will come next. I believe that's actually the revertse of the order I wrote them in, but that doesn't matter._

_This chapter was inspired by the 1964 Lesley Gore Song "You Don't Own Me". Listen to it; can't you picture Andromeda singing it? (As well as a number of other young ladies in the Potterverse, for various reasons...)_

* * *

You Don't Own Me

The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, _toujours pur,_ was in a state of frenzy. Cygnus and Druella Black, master and mistress of the house, were expecting dinner guests, and there was still much to do…or at least, oversee.

Druella Black, née Rosier, was a proud, haughty woman. She swept around the house with an unsettled, arrogant air and swept imperiously up the stair to the drawing room. Three young girls were seated inside, conversing in low voices.

The girls looked enough alike to be recognizable as sisters, but their faces were each markedly different. The eldest of the three, eleven-year-old Bellatrix, was tall and slender, with thick, shining black hair and arresting dark eyes. Narcissa, the youngest, was small and delicate. With her long, blonde hair and pale eyes, the seven-year-old was her darker sister's milk-and-honey opposite. Both girls, however, had the same face: haughty, like their mother's.

Seated on the carpet across from the divan where Bellatrix and Narcissa were sitting was Druella's remaining child. Younger than Bella yet older than Cissy, Andromeda greatly resembled her elder sister. From a distance, one would have difficulty telling the two apart, though upon closer inspection, Andromeda was a two-years-younger, watered-down version of Bellatrix's dark, dramatic good looks. Her hair, worn in twin braids, was a soft, light brown; her eyes, hazel.

The three girls looked up as their mother stood in the doorway. She did not even need to clear her throat to command their attention; such a thing was base, common.

"Your father and I are expecting company for dinner," said Druella, each word intoned imperiously to her daughters. "You are to change into something more presentable and make yourselves ready to greet our guests in the parlour at precisely seven o'clock. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Mother."

Druella stepped back from the doorway into the hall, allowing the girls to pass on the way to their bedrooms. First Bellatrix, wearing a rather arrogant smirk; then Narcissa, flouncing unnecessarily as she undoubtedly pondered which of her seventeen sets of dress robes would suffice.

Andromeda was the last out of the room. She brushed past her mother with a look that plainly expressed reluctance to go and dress up for someone else's dinner guests. Druella watched her daughter's back disappear up a flight of stairs and around a corner, eyes narrowed in mistrust. There was something different about this middle daughter, something she wasn't comfortable with. If only she could put her finger on it…

Andromeda shut her bedroom door with a satisfying snap, swatting a silken pillow off her bed in annoyance. _I hate getting dressed up for Mother and Father's dinner parties,_ she thought. _All we get to do is say 'hello' to the guests; then we're sent off to eat by ourselves in the kitchen and head up to bed. What's the point?_

Lost in this train of thought, she flopped gracelessly on the bed, reached under the mattress, and pulled out a notebook. Its pages were filled with drawings, drawings of places Andromeda's imagination promised to take her every day during her etiquette lessons and every night in her dreams. Drawings of the fascinating people Andromeda dreamed up, to populate the landscapes of her imagination. Each one, a great escape.

The tip of her quill trailed absentmindedly across the creamy new parchment, creating sharp outlines and vague silhouettes. Turrets and towers took shape under Andromeda's patient hand, and as she added the finishing touches quite some time later, only then did she realize what her hands had created without aid of her brain.

"Hogwarts," she breathed, taking in the castle in all its splendour. Andromeda had never been there, but she knew what it looked like after seeing old pictures and reading about it in books. To Andromeda, the castle represented freedom…the freedom to chart her own course, to finally step out of the immense shadow of the noble and Most Ancient House of Black. She just wasn't sure how this might come to be.

"Andromeda? Are you ready yet?"

The voice seemed to be coming from close by. Andromeda leapt to her feet, not realizing how long she had been lying idle on her bed. Securing the sketchbook safely under her mattress once more, Andromeda took quick inventory of her appearance.

_Not dressed yet…Father will throw a fit. My hair's a mess, needs to be brushed…and there's a big ink stain all along the side of my left hand. Brilliant._

Moving wondrous fast, Andromeda threw open the doors of her wardrobe, pulled out the first set of dress robes she could extract from the mass, stripped off her everyday robes and slipped into the new ones. They were fresh and new, the cool satin gliding like water over her skin.

Andromeda scrubbed furiously at the silver basin under her window—first her face, then her inky left hand—all the while furiously praying not to slash a drop on her neatly pressed robes. She grabbed the silver-backed brush from her vanity and brushed out all the tangles in her long, brown hair, briefly wondering if other nine-year-old girls had mothers who would perhaps perform this small service for them.

Deeming herself smart enough for company, Andromeda marched out her bedroom door and down the stairs.

Bellatrix and Narcissa were already waiting in the parlour, standing in front of the gleaming grand piano situated just inside the door, side-by-side. Narcissa was, in Andromeda's opinion, very over-dressed in a frilly, lacy set of robes that made her look like a powder puff. Her face bore a foul, simpering smile that she had perfected over the past six months of dinner parties. Beside her, Bellatrix looked older than her eleven years in an elegant set of dark silk robes. The effect, however, was somewhat ruined by her customary arrogant expression, eyebrows raised challengingly, eyes narrowed.

Druella swept in to inspect her daughters as the sounds of voices issued in from the hall, where Cygnus was greeting his guests. She passed Bellatrix with a nod of approval and admonished Narcissa in a whisper not to fuss with her clothes just as their illustrious guests issued into the room. She frowned slightly as she noted that Andromeda eyed the guests with supreme indifference.

"…My lovely wife, Druella. And of course, our daughters—Bellatrix, Andromeda and Narcissa."

"Charming," supplied one of the guests, a stern-looking man called Avery. He leaned in towards Cygnus, not bothering to lower his voice. "Now, Cygnus, old boy, you _could_ make out very handsomely with these three…"

"Do you think so?" inquired Cygnus, his face keen with interest.

Avery let out a well-mannered chuckle, settling himself on the divan beside his wife, who in any event was conversing with Druella in hushed tones. "Certainly! And you certainly wouldn't have to look far; how old would Abraxas Malfoy's boy be now?"

"Eight, I believe."

"He could make a very handsome match with one of your girls…"

Cygnus raised his eyebrows, apparently pleased with this sudden possibility, and eyed his three daughters (still standing in front of the piano) with a connoisseur's eye. "Not Bellatrix," he muttered to himself, still loudly enough for all to hear. "She's too old for the Malfoy boy…either Andromeda or Narcissa would be best." Her fathers' guests leaned in to better inspect the two girls, Mrs. Avery supplying "I think perhaps the blonde would be simply lovely with Abraxas

Andromeda felt her face flaming. So this is why she had been invited down, so her parents could discuss marrying her off to some snooty pure-blood! At nine years old, marriage was the last thing on Andromeda's mind and she fervently hoped it would stay that way for a while to come. Beside her, Narcissa was positively glowing at the possibility.

"…Lestrange has two boys as well, doesn't he?"

"Yes, yes, of course…Rodolphus and…Rabastan, was it?"

"I would consider them as possibilities for Bellatrix and Andromeda as well…" Now it was Bellatrix's turn to look smug, finally having landed in the spotlight. Andromeda, however, had had enough.

"I don't want to," she said in a low voice, surprising even herself. All eyes in the room fell on her. It was an uncomfortable feeling.

"Don't want to…_what_?" asked Cygnus, a hint of warning in his tone.

Andromeda swallowed, hard. "Don't want to marry some pure-blood boy I don't even know. I'm only nine," she insisted.

Her father was unmoved. "You'll do what you're told," he said forcefully, as Dorea stood to chivvy the girls out of the room and off to the kitchen for supper before bed. Bellatrix and Narcissa issued out, throwing curious looks at their clearly-in-over-her-head sister.

Andromeda shook off the hand her mother had placed on her arm and looked her father directly in the eye, trembling slightly under the intensity of his gaze. "I won't do it. You can't make me do it. You don't _own_ me," she added defiantly.

Avery and his wife looked politely away, feigning conversation with each other while Cygnus leaned in and said, in a voice of deadly calm, "_What_ did you say?"

"Y-you don't own me…"

Cygnus nodded to his wife, who pulled Andromeda from the room, all the way up the stairs and down the hall. She halted before reaching the door to Andromeda's room and turned to face her willful daughter. Her face was an emotionless mask.

"That is where you are mistaken, young lady," she said coldly. "You are an asset of this family. As long as you live under this roof, we _do _own you. And never again forget it," she added, roughly pushing Andromeda into the room and shutting the door behind her.

* * *

_What did you think? Please **review** and share your thoughts on this chapter!_

_As I said before, Ginny will star in chapter 27, but I am giving you all the heads-up for chapter 28. I'm going to try something a little different and offer **multiple** choices. I'm setting up a poll on my profile page. There, you will be able to vote for the character you most want to see from...more than two choices. Enjoy!_

_Last reminder: please don't forget to review! The most reviews I've ever got for a chapter is seven, which is great, but I know there's more than seven of you ut there, reading this story. Please, just take the time to pick one thing you either loved or hated about the chapter and let me know what it is! Even anonymously counts. If you can spare the time to read a chapter, check the story updates or add this story to your favorites (which, if I haven't mentioned it in a while, makes me extremely happy!), you can write a short little review. Or, you know, a longer one...just an idea._

_On va se 'oir,_

_Delilah_


	27. Independent Women

_Hello, everyone! Sorry I haven't updated or anything in a while...some stuff's been going on. _

_First off, I have to thank everyone who reviewed my last chapter. It was by far the largest number of reviews I've ever gotten for any chapter, ever...it was truly spectacular. True, not all of them were admiring, but I appreciate that my readers are astute enough to really think about what they're reading and form their own opinions on characters' motives and actions. So thank you again, **Bottled Sunshine **and **Penitent Rebel** for your reviews of...several chapters, and of course **A Random Person, leiagreenleafsnape, T. XD, PeacockGirl, prizbokc, dancergirl7, AchillesMonkey, Lady Summer, mandya1313, Bookworm41, mystery muffin, Very Small Prophet, Louey06, Blonde Pickle Mule, **and** Bri P.** for your reviews of chapter 26 and every person who's reviewed, favored this story or subscribed to it. I've been reading the responses everyone's been sending me and I'm really, really touched. I've gotten chapter ideas, insight on characters, helpful hints about whether Vicks Vapo-Rub is sold in the UK and offers for help with my pitiful French for a future chapter. When I first started writing this story, I never thought it would reach such proportions. It really does amaze me sometimes. _

_Polls are still open for the next chapter, in case you're wondering. Here's the Ginny chapter I promised after reading a suggestion by **mandya1313**. Enjoy a lighthearted moment, for a change!_

_Things will be getting a bit sporadic for a while, _cheres_, as school's starting back up and I'll have to focus more on my students and less on updating for a while. It's nothing personal. _

* * *

Independent Women

She never thought she would see the day. She was sure she wouldn't last that long. But the day had come and went, and she had made it. It was quiet at last. Molly Weasley could hardly speak for relief.

Only yesterday, Molly and her husband Arthur had driven their old Ford Anglia to King's Cross station, as they had done every September first for the past seven years. They followed all the usual routines. They kissed the newly appointed Head Boy, Bill, goodbye. They warned Charlie not to let Quidditch come into conflict with his prefect duties, even if he was hoping to become Captain next year. They assured Percy that they were sure he'd be able to cope with all the new elective subjects he was starting this year. What was different was that this year, they were sending their headstrong twin boys, Fred and George, off to their first year at Hogwarts. After many last hugs and kisses and dire warnings against getting into any sort of trouble, Molly watched as her twins were whisked away on the scarlet steam engine, around a bend and out of sight.

The ride home was uneventful. The four remaining members of the Weasley family walked into the house, looked at each other for a minute or two, and then went their separate ways, attending to their own business.

It had taken the rest of the day for Molly to adjust to the fact that she was, for the next ten months, a mother of two. Now all she had left at home was nine-year-old Ron and eight-year-old Ginny. For the first time since the twins' birth (maybe even longer), there was relative peace and quiet.

In fact, it was maybe just a little _too_ peaceful and a little _too_ quiet. Molly had been living with the sounds of children for nearly eighteen years, the better part of the past two decades. The fact that she had been able to spend the last hour and a half tranquilly knitting struck her as vaguely ominous. In a house full of kids, quiet was more often an indication that trouble was brewing rather than one that all was well.

Molly tiptoed up the winding wooden staircase, stepping carefully over the stairs that creaked, which she had at this point committed to memory. She poked her head silently into Ron's violently orange room at the very top of the house. He was lying on his bed, nose buried in a comic book.

"Mum? Why are you in my room?" He seemed convinced he was in some kind of trouble, as his mother didn't often visit his room while he was still in it.

"Just checking to see that you're okay, Ronnie. What are you doing?" asked Molly, trying to keep the suspicion out of her voice.

"Trying to read my entire collection of _Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle_ comics," explained Ron, indicating three comic books in a pile on the bed, clearly finished, and a veritable mountain he had yet to peruse.

Slightly surprised to catch her youngest son reading quietly rather than causing trouble, Molly nodded and closed the door over, reflecting to herself as she headed downstairs that just maybe the twins' absence would be good for Ron.

Molly continued down four floors to Ginny's room. It had taken some mental reminders on her own part for Molly to remember to think of the smaller of the first floor's two bedrooms as 'Ginny's room'; up until a year or two ago, it had been 'Charlie's room'. Ginny had grown too big to continue sharing with Ron, and the older boys were away at Hogwarts for ten months out of the year at that point, so Molly and Arthur had reached the decision to move their two eldest sons together into Bill's room when they were home during the holidays and give Charlie's old room to their daughter. Needless to say, Ginny had been quite enthusiastic to move out of Ron's bedroom into a room of her own, though Fred, George, Charlie and Bill all pouted a bit about their youngest siblings each having their own room while they, in clear defiance of the rules of seniority, had to share. Molly pointed out that Percy got his own room, too, and no one was complaining about that, but all four boys insisted that this was because Percy could be so annoying, no one would _want_ to share a room with him. And when she even casually broached the idea of the twins getting their own rooms, they shrieked that they never wanted to be parted.

Pushing open the door a crack, as slowly and silently as she had Ron's, Molly peered into the small bedroom. It was empty.

Wondering vaguely where on earth Ginny had got to, Molly started to head back down the stairs to the ground floor, thinking vaguely of resuming her knitting, when a flash of red hair through the landing's tiny window caught her eye.

It was Ginny, her long red hair whipping around the corner of the old stone broomshed as she ran out of the garden towards the orchard. _Now what could she be up to?_ her mother marveled.

Assuring herself that Ron wouldn't even notice her absence for a couple of minutes at most, as he was a slow reader and that stack of unread comic books would probably hold his attention for quite some time, Molly slipped out the kitchen door and followed her daughter.

The garden was still, the sounds of frogs and bumblebees being the only indications of life out behind the house in the total absence of children. Molly panted slightly as she climbed up the hill that separated the orchard from the rest of The Burrow, wondering what this deserted space could possibly have to interest her daughter.

Leaning against the trunk of a tall tree, Molly took a minute to catch her breath. She carefully obscured herself behind the tree, then peered around to search for evidence of Ginny.

She didn't need to look far. Soaring overhead on what appeared to be one of the twins' brooms was Ginny. Her long mane of hair was streaming out behind her as she flew, shimmering in the late afternoon sun, and she was grinning broadly in a manner that suggested she was thoroughly enjoying herself. She dove, then rocketed upward again, executing hairpin turns and making Molly's heart stand still as she saw her narrowly skirt a tree trunk on the opposite side of the orchard. She was certainly very good…Molly wondered how she had gotten so good, considering that the boys never let her play when they practiced Quidditch during the holidays. For that matter, they scarcely let Ron fly with them, either…except when they needed a Keeper.

Ginny soared around the circumference of the orchard once more, leaning back to feel the wind pass over her face, before alighting gently on the grass and dismounting from the broom. Desperately curious to see how Ginny had even come across one of the twins' brooms (which they had been so reluctant to leave behind, but rules are rules), Molly ducked further behind the trees and cast a quick Disillusionment Charm, knowing that if she followed at a good enough distance, Ginny would never notice that she was even there.

Ginny shouldered the broom expertly and trooped down the hill, Molly following unseen. She watched in astonishment as her eight-year-old daughter stopped in front of the stone broomshed, propped the broomstick up against its outer wall, and rummaged through her thoroughly tousled hair, extracting an ordinary hairpin. She expertly picked the lock on the broomshed's door (_Fred and George had better stop giving my baby such bad habits!_), and once the door sprang open, Ginny carefully placed the borrowed broom inside, leaning it casually up against another broomstick and draping it artistically with cobwebs as though it had never been touched. She stood back to admire her handiwork and Molly, having seen enough for one day, turned and headed back to the house, still speechless.

Molly was preparing dinner when Ginny edged back into the kitchen shortly thereafter. Her mother looked up from the assortment of knives she had been directing her wand at as they cut and peeled various vegetables.

"Oh, hello, Ginny dear. What have you been up to all day? It's been so quiet around here, it's almost like having no children at all!"

Ginny held up a fistful of wildflowers. "Just playing in the garden. I picked you some flowers, Mummy," she added unabashedly. Molly had to admire her nerve.

For a second, Molly Weasley teetered on the verge of calling out her daughter's lie, forcing her to atone for it and ending her secret rendezvous with her brothers' broomsticks, but she stopped herself. Today, she had seen a whole new side of Ginny. Her daughter was not content to be told "No" by the men in her life_. She's an independent woman, perfectly capable of figuring out what she wants and going for it. She won't let anything stand in her way_.

Instead, Molly took the flowers, thanked her daughter warmly, and helped her arrange them artistically in a vase. All through dinner, Molly kept Ginny's secret, dwelling only on her daughter's independence and determination in the privacy of her own mind. It was Ginny herself who jerked Molly out of her reverie—the conversation between the children and their father spoke more to Ginny's go-for-it attitude than even her afternoon broom heist.

"No, Ginny, Ron's right…Harry Potter _will_ be starting Hogwarts the same year as him; they're the same age."

"Daddy, I'm going to _marry_ him someday!"

_Perhaps I was right to just let her get on with it, _thought Molly with a small chuckle. _If she's planning to marry Harry Potter someday, she's going to need all the confidence she can possibly build…_

* * *

_What are your thoughts on this chapter? Please review and let me know! _

_I was planning on leaving you a preview of the next chapter, but it's still very much a work in progress. Polls are still open, as I said, but so far, Victoire is winning by a landslide. I will repeat this warning at the start of the chapter. Though I pepper my ANs with French expressions I commonly use, my French is _not_ standard, not in the least. I have never studied French in school, as a matter of fact. So writing Victoire's "French lessons" requires a lot of editing, and it's slow work. Please be patient and bear with me; I really want to get it right. I'm not ashamed of who and what I am, but my Cajun French can be a source of embarrassment at times ("Urgh, that accent! Those missing syllables!" And so on, and so on, readers...). I only hope you enjoy it when I'm done. _

_On va se 'oir, ("We'll see each other," for the person who asked me what this greeting means)_

_Delilah_


	28. Le Français Pour Débutants

Wow, I just realized that this chapter-about teaching and, by extension, learning-will probably be my last update before school starts! Us teachers go back on Tuesday; the good children of the NYC public school system have a reprieve until Wednesday. Can't complain, though, as we get Thursday and Friday off next week for Rosh Hashanah, so the kids are only in for one day, us for two!

Thanks to last chapter's reviewers: **A Random Person, Blonde Pickle Mule, prizbokc, Louey06, dancergirl7, mandya1313, PeacockGirl, Bookworm41 **and** Achilles Monkey**. Glad you liked spunky little Ginny!

Some notes on translation and the writing of this chapter. Bear with me; I feel the urge for a True Confession.

As I may have mentioned in the last chapter, I have never studied French. The little words and phrases I sprinkle among my English Author's Notes are remnants of a completely oral, nonstandard American dialect (I'm sort of an expert in these; my mom and dad are a Cajun straight outta Acadiana and an old-school New Yorker of Irish descent, respectively; both speak completely different non-standard dialects. You should hear my accent! It's much less obvious in print). I don't even know if they're recognizable to a speaker of real French. In that vein, you guys should feel pretty special; I usually limit the Cajunisms I inherited from my mom when I'm not around family or close friends, much less full-fledged conversation in C.F. (Maybe I'm just confident you won't tease me…maybe I just feel more comfortable using them in writing...I don't know.) Funny, it's apparently an important enough part of the culture to keep alive, but around strangers, it's _fran__ç__ais _cassé, broken French. Embarrassing. Uneducated, even. Old people of my grandparents' generation used to get hit in school for speaking C. French on the playground; _their_ parents spoke more Cajun than English. Add to that the fact that C.F. is a spoken dialect, not a written one, so spelling is generally up for grabs. I guess my hesitation to try and speak "real" French is a product of all this; I didn't even try to study French in school (I took Italian, then Latin in high school and majored in Spanish in college instead, where people wouldn't cringe at my rolled 'r's and slurred-together words). But Victoire is not a Cajun, and her speech should not sound like such. Characters should reflect their environments. I had committed to the idea of a French lesson, so it was time to brush up my French. The integrity of the story demanded it. Authentic, standardized French in this chapter is _lagniappe_…a little something extra, just for you, my dear readers. Please bear with me if it's not perfect.

Dedicated to the incomparable **Penitent Rebel**, who helped me iron out my slurred vocab and inspired me to elongate my "'T"s into veritable "petit"s. Bien merci (or, as you corrected me, merci bien), ma chere amie.

* * *

Le Français Pour Débutants

-or, French for Beginners-

"Papa!"

Bill Weasley looked up from his turkey sandwich. It was a glorious Saturday afternoon, and his daughter was requesting his attention.

Victoire surveyed him with a commanding yet soft look very reminiscent of her mother. "Yes, dear?" he asked her, smiling.

"_Oui, ma ch__è__re_."

"What?"

"You said, 'Yes, dear?' You could've said, '_Oui, ma ch__è__re_?' instead."

Bill raised an eyebrow playfully. He wasn't sure what kind of game this was, but he was willing to bet he'd soon know for sure.

"And why would I say that? You know I can't speak much French."

Victoire frowned. In the sternest voice she could muster, she said, "and that's exactly the problem, young man."

Bill stifled a laugh at being addressed as 'young man' by his daughter, who wasn't even of Hogwarts age yet. "And what, pray tell, do you intend to do about that?"

Victoire rolled her eyes as though this were the most obvious question in the world. "I must teach you to speak French," she replied.

"But why?" asked Bill. "We live in England. Your mum speaks English. Your brother and sister speak English. My whole family speaks English. Even your mum's family knows enough English to get by…"

He stopped speaking as his daughter stared at him determinedly. "You _have_ to learn French, Papa," she wheedled. "You just have to, because otherwise how will we be able to talk about people without them knowing and share our secrets?

Bill pulled a mock-thoughtful face. "Well, young lady, it seems you have a point. My mind is yours for molding."

Victoire seemed to glow, her grin was so luminescent.

Within fifteen minutes, Victoire had set up her little toy blackboard and was standing beside it, slapping a ruler authoritatively in her palm as Bill sat, squeezed precariously into a tiny wooden chair. He was surrounded by the various inhabitants of Victoire's room—dolls, stuffed animals, even (for a few brief moments) little Dominique, all of whom were serving as his classmates. On his lap was a minute notepad, a quill poised to take notes in his hand.

Victoire was clearly taking her role very seriously. She had tied her hair back in a high bun as best she could, and she had procured a pair of sunglasses from somewhere and popped out the lenses. The now-empty frames were perched on the bridge of her nose like thick spectacles. "_Bonjour, classe,_" she began authoritatively. She leaned in closer and said, "Now, I'm going to teach you some French words." She held up a picture of a house that looked as though it had been drawn in crayon by one of her younger siblings. "_Maison_."

"_Maison,_" repeated Bill. Seemingly satisfied, Victoire produced another picture. A mother bird, sitting on a nest in a flowering tree. "_Oiseau_," intoned Victoire precisely.

"Wow!" said Bill, only half surprised. "There's a special word for a flowering tree containing a bird's nest, complete with eggs and bird?" Victoire frowned. "_Papa_," she whined, "that just means the _bird_, not the tree, and the eggs, and…all of it!"

She looked visibly affronted, as though Bill's inability to take his daughter's French lessons seriously constituted a mortal offense. Taking pity on his daughter, Bill took up his notepad and made as if to take notes.

Victoire regained her composure as quickly as she had lost it. She pulled out a picture of a hound dog with long, droopy ears and big, doleful brown eyes.

"And how would I refer to this dog, _mademoiselle_? Spot? Duke?"

"_Ce chien_, Papa, not 'this dog'." She discarded the picture of the dog, on top of the pile of used picture cues. Fleur's large, gray cat slunk out from under a chair, took one look at the dog, and hissed.

"_Chat!"_ scolded Victoire, shooing the cat with her foot. Bill had to suppress a laugh, especially once Louis emerged from the next room, chasing after the retreating cat with what looked to be a butterfly net of some sort. From the sitting room, he could hear Fleur shouting in defense of her cat, "Louis! Ne fais pas de misère! Fiche lui la paix!"

"See, Papa?" interrupted Victoire, "with a little practice, you'll be able to speak French just as good as Maman…you're doing okay already, for a beginner."

"Merci bien, Victoire. Ton enseignement est trés bien. Ça aide beaucoup, mon chou."

Victoire's eyes were as wide as Galleons. She stared at her father as though he had quite suddenly sprouted ten additional heads, all of which were fluently reciting Goethe. Bill raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"Qu'est-ce qui est passé? What's the matter?" Bill asked in concern.

"_You spoke French!"_

"I know I did," replied Bill, utterly nonplussed.

"But…but…you said you couldn't speak French!" Victoire stammered in complete disbelief.

"I told you, it's your teaching…look what a difference it made!"

Victoire looked skeptical for a minute, biting thoughtfully down on her lower lip as she appeared to reflect on this inviting possibility. Then, apparently satisfied, she scampered off after her brother (still in hot pursuit of the cat), beaming a radiant smile.

Fleur emerged from the sitting room, eyeing Bill.

"You told her you couldn't speak French?" she asked, torn between amusement and disapproval.

Bill turned to face his wife. "I never said I couldn't speak French," he said defensively. "I only said I couldn't speak it _well_."

Fleur looked disapproving. "As eef you could spend Chreestmas weeth _ma famille_ without knowing some French," she chuckled. Still smiling not entirely approvingly, she turned and headed into the kitchen.

Bill shrugged his shoulders, trying his best to look innocent. "What? I _can't_ speak it well!" he called after Fleur, keen to have his opinion known. "Your _petite fille_ did teach me a lot! That girl's got a gift, Fleur! D'you hear me? A gift!"

Fleur smirked to herself, hearing her husband's praise of their firstborn. Meanwhile, hidden out of sight behind the big armchair near the fireplace, Victoire glowed with pride.

_Papa thinks I'm a good teacher!_ she mused. _I did it! Listen to him now, his French is so good! I did that!_

Sneaking carefully out towards the hall, from whence had come her father's voice, she had to stop and think for a moment to track him down. She found him in the kitchen, making himself a large and delectable-looking sandwich. Of course! All good students needed a healthy lunch to help them learn. Victoire approached him.

"Papa?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad you learned French."

"Me, too. Thanks for teaching it to me." Victoire though he was fighting back a laugh, and wondered why, but shrugged off this feeling as she lowered her voice.

"_J'ai un secret_."

Bill raised his eyebrows. "A secret? Really? Do tell!"

Victoire smiled again. "_Tu es le meilleur papa du monde_," she whispered in his ear, before grinning and trotting out the door to go and find her brother and that unfortunate cat.

Bill grinned broadly. "Well!" he said aloud to himself. "The best dad in the world! Not too shabby…"

And, supremely satisfied with himself, he took a huge bite of his sandwich.

* * *

_Whew! Writing this chapter made me break a sweat even more than twenty minutes on the treadmill! And coming from a scrawny, unathletic little specimen like me, that's saying a lot!_

_I can almost hear Victoire in my ear: "You can speak French!" Don't flatter me, girl, it's nothing to write home about. _

_What did _you_ think about it, readers? A few people offered the opinion that Bill probably already knew some French, and that's the premise I'm working from here. How many times do parents pretend not to know something, simply to give their children the pleasure of "teaching" them? Poor Victoire, she really thinks she taught her dad fluent French in the course of an hour or so!_

_Anyway, please review and share your thoughts, even if it's just a hello. Next chapter will feature a Christmas celebration, which I alluded to cleverly in this chapter (Okay, so I just noticed that now...)_

_And to all the students, teachers and parents of school-aged kids out there among my readers, have a great school year! Yes, I realize some of you must have started already. Some of my cousins have been in school for nearly a month. Not all, though. Especially not the New York ones. Or the N.J. ones, for that matter..._

_On va se 'oir,_

_Delilah_


	29. Empty Chairs At Empty Tables

_Hi, everyone! Hope all of my readers are enjoying the last bit of the weekend and all of you who are students are adjusting well to the start of a new school year. I should be writing lesson plans right now, but I can't seem to put my mind to them. I'd rather escape into someone else's mind, which is why I'm here. _

_First off, I have to thank all the readers who enjoyed and reviewed my last chapter. Writing it took quite the effort, and it feels so good to have people acknowledge it. That, and I'm immensely glad you liked it, as well...it would've really sucked if, after all that work, it was absolutely dreadful! Special thanks to my reviewers: **Louey06, Blonde Pickle Mule, Bookworm41, AchillesMonkey, prizbokc, dancergirl7, A Random Person **and **PeacockGirl**. On a related note, thanks to **CurliiHairedArtist** and **Millie** for their reviews of past chapters. Thanks a million!_

_I mentioned that this would be a Christmas chapter, but just to warn you-it runs a little low on Christmas cheer. You'll see why. Enjoy!_

* * *

Empty Chairs at Empty Tables

Susan loved Christmas. It was her favorite time of the year, ever since she was very small.

She loved putting up the Christmas tree in a specially-cleared corner of the sitting room. She loved decorating it with strings of popcorn and tinsel while her parents used their wands to add "the finishing touches".

She loved baking gingerbread with her mother, cutting out paper snowflakes while lying on her stomach on the sitting room rug and inhaling the glorious aroma of baking cookies.

She loved sneaking out with her father on one special Saturday before Christmas, when her mother was busy with one thing or another, to buy her secret presents, wrap them and hide them in the very back of the hall closet.

She loved trying to stay up all night on Christmas Eve, waiting for the arrival of her presents, only to fall promptly asleep, waking every few hours to force a peek.

This year was no different. But as the number of Christmases Susan would be spending at home before going to Hogwarts was rapidly dwindling, her parents were determined to make each one extra-special, memorable in its own way. After all, perhaps once Susan saw what Christmases at Hogwarts were like, she wouldn't want to return home for the holidays? It was always a possibility.

Unfortunately, as was often the case around Christmas, the Bones family discovered anew that time has a disconcerting way of flying by when there is much to do. Before long, Christmas Eve had arrived, and the house was still not quite perfect. Determined to have the entire interior of the house sumptuously decorated within the afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Bones bundled Susan up in countless layers of winterwear and sent her out to play.

A brisk winter breeze lifted at Susan's hair as she headed down the front steps. She kicked at a pebble on the ground, briefly wondering what to do with her newfound leisure time, when a voice sounded from somewhere behind her.

"Susan! Susan, over here!"

Amanda, the neighbor girl with whom Susan usually played, was calling down the lane to Susan. She, too, was bundled up for some outdoor fun, a colorful striped scarf standing out against the dull gray of the winter sky. Susan jogged up to her.

The girls settled themselves on the front steps of Amanda's house and looked around at the Christmas lights which were just flickering to life in the windows of each house. It was a dreary, cloudy day, and it looked as though night was falling early, even though it was scarcely past two o'clock.

"What are you doing for Christmas?" asked Amanda, looking inquiringly at Susan. Susan's eyes lit up with barely concealed festive glee. This was the question she had been hoping to get, from anyone she happened to meet. The chance to elaborate on the plans and traditions that, even now-a full day in advance-were making her very skin tingle with excitement.

"Well, my mum's cooking a big turkey, with stuffing and mashed potatoes! She makes sprouts, too, every year, but Dad always takes mine off my plate when Mum's not looking…"

Amanda looked almost envious. "Your Dad is the best!"

"He really is," nodded Susan. She took a deep breath, then continued, "We have presents, too, and special party crackers, and some years my Auntie Amelia even comes!"

Susan finished on a smile and looked expectantly at her friend. Amanda grinned, clearly savoring happy holiday memories of her own. She leaned in, eager for her turn to share.

"My family comes for Christmas, too," began Amanda happily. "My mum's parents, and my granddad on my dad's side. My Aunt Laura and Uncle Wayne are bringing my cousins tonight, and all my dad's family is coming tomorrow. We're setting up an extra dining table in the sitting room so there's enough space for everyone, and _everybody_ brings something to eat, and mountains and mountains of presents!" She paused for a moment, trying to decipher the expression on Susan's face. "What's wrong?"

Susan frowned slighty, trying to put her confusion into words. "How come you've got so many people in your family?"

Amanda shrugged. "I don't know. How come you've got so few?"

* * *

"Mum?"

"Yes, Susan?"

It was nearly time for dinner, but it seemed like the evening meal would have to wait until some straightening up took place. The sitting room was in total disarray. The tree had been decorated to perfection, true, but the rest of the room was hidden underneath a carpet of garlands, stylized snowflakes and candles. Susan stood in the doorway, watching her mother attempt to shift some of the debris, directing her wand at a holly garland that promptly flew to the banister of the hall stair and wound its way up. "Tjere now, that looks festive," she muttered, more to herself than to her preoccupied-looking daughter.

"Why is our family so small?"

The second garland slipped from its intended target around the doorframe and fell on Susan's head.

"Ow!"

"Oh, sweetheart, I'm so sorry. Your question, it just…took me by surprise."

Susan looked expectantly at her mother. Eleanor Bones sighed. She looked troubled as she beckoned to her daughter. Susan sat down on the sofa beside her mother, still awaiting her response. Eleanor looked as though she didn't know where to begin. _Is it really the right time to tell her? Why now? _

She didn't want to say it aloud. Not on Christmas Eve, when everyone was feeling so happy. But now that Susan had asked-asked outright, in fact-the subject could be avoided no longer. The question was, how to begin...

"Susan," Eleanor began tentatively, trying valiantly to keep her voice from trembling like her hands, which she kept clenched tightly around a stray sprig of mistletoe in her lap, "you remember when your dad and I told you about You-Know-Who, right?"

"Yeah…you said that he was a really bad Dark wizard and that Harry Potter beat him a long time ago."

_Oh, dear…if only that were the whole of it…_

"Well, sweetheart, he killed a lot of people before he disappeared. People who fought against him. Some of them were...were in our family…Your Uncle Edgar and his whole family…your grandparents…"

Susan drew away from the comforting hand her mother had held out. She stood up and, eyes never leaving her mum's, backed slowly out of the room and ran up the stairs. Thundering down the short corridor, wrenching opne her bedroom door in a haze of numb disbelief, throwing herself on her bed, she buried her face in her pillow and sobbed. The truth, at last, about why Susan never shared her Christmases with a house full of cousins…she had known she probably wouldn't like her parents' answer, but _why _did it have to be so terrible? Through the window, she could see a car pulling up in front of Amanda's house and heard the laughter of the people getting out. They were heavily laden with wrapped gifts and were hugging each other warmly. Susan rolled over to face away from the window; the sight of Amanda's big, happy family filled her with an envy that was as intense and as poison, and it made her sick.

* * *

Susan did not emerge from her bedroom until half past eight. Her hair was messy from lying on the bed and her eyes were rather red. She appeared in the sitting room doorway, just as she had done earlier that evening, watching her parents talking quietly on the sofa. Their conversation ground to a halt as she entered the room.

"I'm sorry I ran out," she said in a very small voice. "I didn't mean to."

They looked at each other, then at Susan.

"This wasn't how we'd wanted to tell you," her father began, but his wife cut him off.

"—But you needed to know, sweetheart. We weren't going to lie to you, and we couldn't send you off to school not knowing. You would've found out _somehow_, the timing was just… not what we would've planned."

Susan nodded. The oven timer started beeping, and Susan was relieved to hear it, relieved that she didn't have to sit and hash over the confused muddle of emotions she'd developed over the course of the afternoon. It was just too much. Instead, both Susan and her mother donned oven mitts and transferred the just-baked gingerbread cookies to a platter before sitting down to the light dinner that had come to traditionally predate the next day's Christmas feast in the Bones household. It was, as Susan's father often joked, like a rehearsal for the real thing. And with the decorations sparkling all around the house, the heaps of crackers ready to be pulled tomorrow and the roaring fire in the sitting room, it truly did start to feel a bit more like Christmas.

Or moreso, anyway. Watching her father laugh at a tale her mother was recounting (involving a violent tussel she'd endured somewhere around midday with a string of tinsel that seemed to possess a mind of its own), Susan tried to force her mind to imagine what it would be like, to be sitting at a table packed so tight with jolly Christmas revelers that she could hardly move her elbows.

Susan looked around at the unused, empty chairs at the table and understood, for the first time, the true cost of standing up against evil.

* * *

_Is it just me, or did anyone else find it strange that Susan's parents were still decorating and...doing ordinary stuff, on Christmas Eve? I may have been off-base with this one; I based it on the fact that, in the books, neither Harry nor any of Harry's schoolmates ever seem to do anything special on Christmas Eve, but rather do all their celebrating on Christmas Day. I was a little out of my element here, as in my family (and it could just be us, for all I know...we are oddballs in more ways than one!), Christmas Eve is a bigger deal than Christmas Day. If we're in New York for Christmas, we'll have my mom's family up here for Christmas Eve and visit my dad's on Christmas Day (though my mom's relations come over our house anyway; they can't go home on Christmas, not all that way!); if we're in Louisiana, we spend all of Christmas with my mom's family and visit dad's for New Years' (they can't complain...they get Easter practically every year...) We have a very big, very early dinner, then when everyone digests we'll just talk, catch up...the kids will shake boxes under the tree, trying to determine what's inside. Dessert starts around the same time most families are sitting down for dinner, then (by that point, the kids are out of patience) we open presents (just the ones from our grandparents, aunts uncles and cousins who are present...the rest are for Christmas Day). We'll usually watch a Christmas movie after we're done with the presents over coffee (_It's A Wonderful Life _being the favorite) before heading out to midnight Mass. That could just be our thing, though. Thought I'd give a little explanation as to my confusion; I honestly have no clue how other people spend Christmas (though it would be fascinating to find out!)_

_If I didn't imply it before, please review! Pretend it's a Christmas present! Yes, I know it's September..._

_Not sure who I'm posting next (you may request a favorite, though), as I've started several chapters and finished none. Don't know when I'll be updating, either, but (and no, this is **not** a shameless ploy to get more reviews) hearing from my readers really, honestly does give me more incentive to work on chapters. I guess it's just a reminder for me, that there are a certain amount of people out there waiting to hear more. The larger that number gets, the more urgently I feel I need to update, as I don't want to let lots of people down._

_By the way, I came up with an idea for a Weasley fic, and I thought I'd see if my readers are interested. I adore Ron (as you can see how he pops up in all my Weasley chapters) and I got the idea to write a story featuring a grown Ron for a change. It's the night before his wedding, and despite himself, Ron's getting nervous...in each chapter, a different member of the Weasley clan tries to give him some matrimonial advice. What do you think, should I pursue it?_

_Until next time, then, (wow! In English, for a change!)_

_Delilah_


	30. Starlight, Star Bright

_I don't know what came over me. Maybe it was the heartfelt requests, the desperate pleas. Is it possible i managed to finally, FINALLY conquer my writer's block on this particular subject and complete a Sirius Black chapter?_

_It seems to be so. This one's for all you Sirius fans out there. It wasn't easy to write, though it did start to flow after seven or eight false starts. I really hope you enjoy it; I'm not sure if it will live up to expectations, and that makes me a tiny bit nervous._

_The usual thanks apply: to anyone who graced this humble story (now in its 30TH EPIC CHAPTER!) with a Favorite tag or an Alert. And, of course, to my reviewers: **SilverWolf77, A Random Person, PeacockGirl, Louey06, Blonde Pickle Mule, Bookworm41, prizbokc, dancergirl7, Penitent Rebel **and** Achilles Monkey.** You all inspire me. Enough said._

_Sorry for following up a sad chapter with another somewhat sad chapter. I know you wanted Sirius, so I uploaded him as soon as possible. Hope that makes up for 2 chapters of wistfulness. One of my sisters is a Sirius fan, too (she feels quie sorry for him), so I tried to channel her spirit as I wrote this chapter. I'd dedicate it to her, only I'm already dedicating Fleur's chapter to her. You'll see why when I post it._

_Anyway, enjoy, I truly hope I didn't disappoint, as I'm totally out of my league here. _

_PS-My new Ronfic's up. It's called _Matrimonial Advice_ and I'm updating every night this week; already on ch. 3!_

* * *

Starlight, Star Bright

_Starlight, star bright, first star I see tonight…_

Sirius Black wished on a star every night. He had done so for as far back as he could remember, and as he was a great grown-up boy of seven already, that was an exceptionally long time. He supposed it was in his blood. After all, generations of Blacks had been named after celestial bodies; one look at the immense (and immensely old) tapestry in the drawing room his mother so prized was enough to allow Sirius to imagine that he wasn't the first little boy or girl in the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black to direct his heart's desire to the heavens.

Of course, seeing the stars in order to wish on them was enough of a chore. Wishing on the Evening Star was certainly not for amateurs; no, sir. Sirius' wide bedroom windows looked out onto a bleak sort of square; dull, uninspiring London streets surrounded the stately home his parents had created at 12 Grimmauld Place. It was sometimes tricky to catch sight of a decent-looking star that wasn't either obscured by the smoky fog of industry or otherwise just the lights on one of those Muggle aeroplanes, just pretending. Sirius was, in this capacity, a master astronomer, for whom only one star would suffice for wishing purposes.

It was odd, he thought to himself at times, that sitting by his window, waiting for the Evening Star to make her appearance (yes, she was undoubtedly a _she_; Sirius was most convinced of that) was often the part of his day when he felt most excited, yet inexplicably at peace. He felt a curious affinity with the Evening Star, perhaps because he, too, was a star. _Sirius…the Dog Star. The brightest star in the constellation Canis Major. Someday, I'll be the brightest of us all. I'll show them just what I can do._

It wasn't as though his life was terrible, after all. _Mother and Father love me,_ he would always remind himself. _They're always saying how important I am, how special. Why would they say that if they didn't mean it?_

Orion and Walburga Black (née Black) did indeed impress upon their sons the magnitude of their destinies, the _specialness_ (for lack of a more illustrious word) they had inherited as the primary heirs of the glorious Black line. Why shouldn't they? After all, didn't everyone know that to be a black made you practically royal?

_Why do I feel so weird around them, then?_ Little Sirius asked himself as he pulled off his day clothes and buttoned up his striped pyjamas, skipping a button on the shirt and therefore having to unbutton the lot and start all over. He paced half-heartedly around the palatial bedroom, kicking the soles of his bare feet against the pristine surface of the antique carpet.

For it was true; though they all fussed over him and bought him expensive presents and kept asking how he felt about being his father's eldest son and heir—the heir to a dynasty as illustrious as any—Sirius felt vaguely uneasy around his many Black relations, and he could not think of a single good reason why. Regulus seemed to have no problem with them; he would quit tagging along after Sirius long enough to garner some attention from the relatives whenever they came to call. In fact, perhaps that was what his family was best for—distracting Regulus. He was okay, but he was also…five. A baby, or at least little more than a baby. Annoying at times.

Sirius climbed up into the window, craning his neck upwards to see the sky. No, she wasn't out yet…but she'd better hurry, or else his mother would be in to check that he was in bed.

_Uncle Alphard's not weird,_ reasoned Sirius to himself. _He brings me and Reggie sweets all the time. He never uses big words I don't understand when he talks to me. Not like Grandfather…_

An image crossed Sirius' mind, before he could help himself—his grandfather, a rigid, elderly man wearing robes several years out of fashion because he stubbornly adhered to the idea that things just weren't made as good nowadays as they were in the "good old days". He smoked a pipe, too, wafting great clouds of smoke through the entrance hall of Number Twelve whenever he visited. And every time he saw Sirius, he couldn't resist mentioning some glorious ancestor of his and asking pointedly when he would add his name, too, to the list of Blacks who changed history.

_He calls me 'young man' all the time…I'm not a young man, I'm a kid!_ thought Sirius in frustration, apparently not noticing that he had started to pummel his emerald-green pillows. Those stories of Grandfather's were fascinating the first time or two, but they certainly did grow old over time. _He must be right, though,_ a tiny voice in Sirius' head reminded him. _Grandfather has an Order of Merlin, First Class. What have _you_ got?_

Outside the sumptuously velvet-curtained window, the clouds were beginning to part, thank God. Sirius pressed his nose right up to the glass, black fringe drooping slightly into his eyes as he combed the sky for traces of the Evening Star, finally spotting her telltale, signature luminance.

_Starlight, star bright, first star I see tonight…I wish I may, I wish I might have the wish I make tonight…_

Closing his dark eyes as tight as he could to aid in his concentration, Sirius wished until he could feel that tightness in the pit of his stomach that let him know that yes, tonight he 'really meant it', and was wishing with every bit of his heart and soul.

_I wish that I could be famous someday,_ he thought. There was no need to speak the words aloud; the Evening Star would know his heart's desire. She always knew.

_I wish to be so famous, and so great, that they're all proud of me. Please, let them be proud of me. I don't want to be nobody forever. _

Sirius thought back to earlier that afternoon, when he had come across his mother, reading leisurely in the drawing room. Across from her ornately carved antique chair, the tapestry bearing the Black Family Tree hung proudly, its golden embroidery glinting in the midday sun.

"There sure are a lot of Blacks, Mother," he had said, his eyes growing round as he tried to take in all of their exotic, somewhat unfamiliar names. Though difficult to read, they certainly sounded impressive.

"Yes, Sirius, you come from a long line of great wizards. And you shall someday be among the greatest of them all, shan't you, my son?"

Sirius nodded, swallowing hard. Of course he wanted to be the greatest of them all; the problem is, he had no idea how. Not wanting to come across as a disappointment in front of his parents, he had shared these concerns with Regulus.

They were ensconced in a forgotten corner of the house—an often overlooked and nearly-completely forgotten cupboard on the third floor that had been transformed not long ago by the two brothers into the most secret of secret clubhouses. It was here that they had taken their solemn oath to be best friends forever and always stand behind one another, no matter what, and it was here that, earlier that day, the two boys had crouched among the various household objects and tried to come up with a plan.

"How about you kill a dragon?" suggested Regulus. He had a well-developed fear of dragons, for some reason, though Sirius suspected it may have stemmed from the time he himself had persuaded Kreacher to dress as a dragon so that he could slay him, and Regulus had somehow got in the way. One or two incidences of accidental magic resulted and, in the end, Regulus began the habit of checking under his bed for evidence of dragons nightly, then going to sleep with the lights still on.

"We're in London," Sirius reminded him. "There's no dragons in the city."

"That's what the dragons _want_ you to think," replied Regulus with a little shudder.

"Maybe I can become Minister of Magic!" said Sirius on sudden inspiration. Regulus frowned.

"That's boring."

"Yeah, you're right," conceded Sirius.

The deliberation went on for the better part of an hour before the boys vacated their hideout at the sound of their mother's shouts. And still, they had reached no solution to Sirius' problem, which led him to direct his pleas to the skies above.

_Please, please, please…just let me do something that will make Mother and Father and grandfather and all of them finally be proud of me and stop asking me when it's gonna be my turn. Let it by my turn now._

_In the skies overhead, now miraculously free of clouds, the Evening Star twinkled in response. Glittering serenely, it shined down on the boy, tall for seven years old; elegant and aristocratic, yet carefree at the same time, though poised and purposeful as he knelt beside his bedroom window. He smiled. It seemed the twinkling of the star, so friendly-looking, simply had to mean 'yes'._

Satisfies with his night's work, Sirius slipped comfortably between the exquisite cotton sheets his father had recently had imported from a faraway land called Egypt. A beam of starlight fell across his face, glowing faintly like a pale moon against his dark pillowcase.

Sirius Black wished on the Evening Star every night, tonight being no exception. His parents knew this; they couldn't help hearing as they passed his door, listening to see if their firstborn was sitting up late without permission. What they hoped, though, was not so much for the star to grant his wish, but for him to grant it for himself. After all, he had the potential to be illustrious. Shining. A jewel in the mighty constellation that was the House of Black.

* * *

_Thoughts? Normally, I wouldn't care if you wanted to be blunt, but I think I'll ask you to be gentle this one time. That's all I'll say. Please review._

_PS-Anyone else wish on the Evening Star as a kid out there? I still do on occasion, when you can see it through the smog. You don't see many stars here in the city, not with all the other lights. You catch them sometimes, though._

_On va se 'oir, my friends,_

_Delilah_


	31. Never Too Old

_Sa me fait de la pain. I'm so sorry, readers. I know it's been a very long time. I swear I didn't forget you, and it wasn't on purpose that I neglected you, for true. Work's been kicking my...use your imagination. I've been dying to get down to some wiritng, but time has been in short supply as of late. And my computer's no help, damned thing tat it is. It decided to crash on me and though one of my sisters managed to reboot it, all my files were gone, so I had to start up from scratch. Though of course, what mattered most, in my brother's eyes at least, was that the picture of him jumping in midair that he had taken seven or eight tries to capture on film was saved elsewhere. No comment. _

_School's been so busy, I've barely been able to spend one afternoon a week writing. My new students are pretty good, except for one thing. Ever have something about yourself that you'd love to change, because it just makes getting through the day more difficult? I do. My students have this incredibly annoying habit of laughing when I speak. It's the accent; I know it sounds funny to them, but as long as my grammar is correct, I don't see hwta the problem is. It's just so irritating, not least of all because I know I'd be in huge trouble if I laughed at how any of them speak...I hate hypocrisy. Me, I've even gone so far as to talk to our shcool's speech teacher about her thoughts on dialect reduction. She's against it. Easy for her to say. Perhaps I should teach abroad...it's only English where I sound funny, apparently. And French, I guess. That leaves options open._

_Anyway, readers, I'd intended to post Hannah next, but she's not done, so you get Louis instead. They're both happy chapters, though, so I hope it makes up, in some small way, for my long absence. Please accept it with my apologies and enjoy._

* * *

Never Too Old

Bill Weasley had mentioned the invitation weeks ago. Luna Lovegood, soon to be Luna Scamander, was getting married, and the entire Weasley family was invited. She was a special friend, very dear to the family, and each and every one of the Weasleys was determined to make the most out of this special occasion. And, after all, she had been a guest at Bill and Fleur's wedding several years before…on that fateful night that, as Bill's brother Ron so _poetically_ phrased it, "all hell broke loose." In this way, it felt as though one chapter in the lives of those involved was closing; another, opening.

And so, determined to show off her children at their best, Fleur dragged the kids out to Madam Malkin's to buy sharp new dress robes, spending an entire Saturday trapped in the dressing rooms as Victoire deliberated endlessly between the periwinkle blue robes and the seafoam green. Seated on an ancient chair beside the three-way mirror, Louis scowled and tried to look as menacing as possible, in hopes that he'd somehow frighten his sisters into _making a choice, already_ so that he could get out into the sunshine and the fresh, open air. _I __hate__ being dragged out shopping with them, _he thought. _I'm not a baby! I can pick out clothes by myself. I shouldn't have to stay. _An eternity later, the happy moment finally arrived, only for Louis' face to fall as Fleur announced, "We'd better 'urry, eef we are going 'oo make eet to ze shoe store before eet closes…"

The night before the wedding, Fleur sent each of her children in turn to take a thorough bath, checking to make sure they scrubbed behind their ears. Bill took the family's new dress robes out of their wrappings and laid them out on the table, inspecting them for wrinkles that needed to be pressed. As each child left the bathroom, wrapped in their terrycloth dressing gowns, their mother led them to the kitchen sink and sat them on a chair, leaning back over the sink basin, so that she could wash their hair to her own degree of satisfaction. Louis squirmed and complained, for what six-year-old boy wants his mother to wash his hair in the sink? At this age, looking scruffy was a point of pride for many boys.

Fleur scrubbed hard, the foamy lather of shampoo oozing up between her fingers, humming to herself. "_Mum_," protested Louis, as a trail of lather dribbled down his forehead, "that's enough, I'm clean! I _hate_ it when you wash my hair in the sink!"

Fleur raised an eyebrow. "Why? Eet's just like being at the salon!"

"That's for _girls_! And babies!"

His mother chortled. "Your father ees next," she informed Louis. "Ees 'e a girl? I'm preety sure 'e ees no baby."

Reflecting on this fascinating bit of information and trying with all his might not to concede that she was right, Louis didn't speak again until his mother had rinsed his hair, rubbed it _hard_ with the towel and thoroughly dried it with a gust of hot air from her wand. "Off to bed," she said, nudging her son (who looked as though he had recently exited a wind tunnel) along the hall his sisters had disappeared down not long ago.

"But it's early!"

"Ees it? What time ees it?"

Louis frowned, knowing in his heart that he had lost. He was still learning to tell time, so he was sure that even if he took a guess, his mother would simply tell him it was nearly midnight and he would be in no position to argue. Frowning, he stomped off to bed, wondering why grown-ups made such a fuss over weddings to begin with.

The reception was beautiful, simply beautiful. The food was delicious, though many of the guests were unfamiliar with the various strange dishes the bride had specifically requested, which she had come across in her travels at one time or another. Everyone seemed to be thoroughly enjoying themselves: several elderly wizards were laughing uproariously, half-drained goblets of firewhisky clutched in their hands; Grandma Molly was fussing over little Cousin Lily as she chased Cousin Hugo around the table on her sturdy little legs; Uncle Harry was surrounded by a veritable crowd of admirers who were begging for the most intimate details of his many adventures.

The dance floor was packed with people: preadolescent couples dancing 'with' each other without actually getting close enough to feel awkward, small children bouncing up and down in time to the music, old people swaying gently back and forth. The tune was a buoyant, upbeat one, and as the song ended, the assembled crowd applauded loudly.

"All right, ladies and gentlemen, we're gonna slow things down a bit now, so we'd like to invite everyone out there to find the one they love, hold them tight, and head out onto the dance floor."

Frowning in disgust as small children often do when the band starts playing a slow song, Louis watched as the children on the dance floor—mostly cousins of his—tramped dejectedly back to their seats, or otherwise crept off to ogle the cake with undisguised greed. He watched as the dance floor slowly filled with couples. Then, scanning the crowd, his eyes finally fell on his mother.

She was sitting, alone, at the table she and Bill shared with other Weasley siblings and their respective spouses. Bill was sitting three tables away, engaged in what appeared to be a highly animated conversation with his mother. A brilliant idea struck Louis as he stood there, watching his grandmother gesture toward his father's hair. He looked back at his mother, sitting alone and swaying gently to the music, a nostalgic look in her eye.

Fleur was still beautiful. The most beautiful woman in the world, in Louis' eyes.

She was still elegant. Still graceful. Still _slender_, for God's sake. Her eyes shone as though she knew a secret she'd deign to share with no one, and whenever she was happy, she seemed to give off an ethereal glow. She was the envy of every other woman at this wedding. She was everything her son believed a fine lady should be. No, not a fine lady, but something more. _Mum looks like an angel,_ Louis thought to himself, not for the very first time. And it was true—while many children had mums who looked aged like grandmothers, warm like the lady behind the counter in the pastry shop, ebullient like children themselves, only Louis felt that he could honestly say that his mum looked like an angel, not fallen from heaven, but perhaps arrived on a visit to add a certain beauty to the world. Yet she was not dancing with anyone, but sitting alone, watching others dance.

Louis walked along the edge of the dance floor and came to a halt at his mother's shoulder. Her deep blue eyes fell on him and she smiled, the same smile she always wore when looking at one of her children. The one that seemed to make her emit a sort of silvery glow.

"Mum? Do you…wanna dance?"

Her smile broadened, and she took his hand, and the most beautiful woman in the world (pronounced so by no less an authority than Louis Weasley, a trained and certified expert in such matters) led her little boy to the dance floor. She placed his remaining hand at her waist, and they revolved slowly on the spot, under the stars that could just barely be seen through the silk of the marquee.

" 'Oo taught you to dance so well?" she asked in surprise, looking down at the little boy, who was beaming contentedly around at everyone.

"My mum," he said, his smile broadening, and Fleur grinned, too, before adding, "She ees a lucky woman, to 'ave such a graceful, debonair leetle boy…and at such a young age, no less!"

Louis held back a laugh, especially as his Uncle George glided by, dancing a bit _too_ exuberantly with Aunt Angelina, considering how other occupants of the dancefloor were steering themselves away from this particular pair.

"Hey, kid!" he called to Louis, who turned around to look. "How is it that a little guy like you gets to dance with the best-looking woman here?"

Louis shrugged. "Just lucky, I guess," he chirped, as Aunt Angelina whacked Uncle George not-_entirely_-playfully in the side of the head with her clutch purse, chiding "Or maybe it's because he's already got more sense than _you_, George..."

_As the music began to slow and dwindle towards the end of the song, Fleur looked down again to see those blue eyes—her blue eyes, to be sure—looking right back up at her. "Thank you so much for the dance, mon petit," she said sweetly. "If I'd 'av known I'd be asked to dance by such an 'andsome young stranger, I would 'av worn more comfortable shoes! But surely, you deedn't want to spend the 'ole night dancing with ton maman? No?"_

Louis looked beyond the billowy fabric of his mother's organza sleeve to see his father, waltzing gracefully with Grandma Molly not far away. If his _dad_ wasn't too old to still be his mama's boy…

"No, Mummy," he said with certainty. "I'll never be too old to wanna dance with you."

* * *

_I feel almost undeserving of your reviews. However, I shall still ask: what did you think? It's funny how even the most rambunctious little boys can still be 'mama's boy' deep down. Louis was, in case you're wondering, based on a former student of mine. A real spitfire, he was, but he was like a little puppy when his mom was around. Maybe it was because he was the baby, or else the only boy...I hope i captured him well enough. Please share your thoughts; I've missed hearing from all of you._

_I really hope I can update soon, but there's some stuff going down at work that's got everyone on high alert until further notice. I'll check in as soon as I replenish my deleted chapters. Don't worry-I'm not the type to give up on stories without letting you know first. I show proper courtesy, especially to those who are in no position to laugh as I speak, since I'm writing and I suppose you can't tell what I sound like from words on a page. Apparently I can;t even tell...until I watched myself on video. Not a fun experience, though I must complement myself on my outfit. Thank God for small successes._

_On va se 'oir,_

_Delilah_


	32. In Between

_Hello, Potter fans and readers of all ages! I felt the need to update as I drove past an HP7 billboard on my way home from work today. My little brother wants the whole lot of us (note how he flat out neglects to invite his own parents) to go to the midnight showing, but (enter Delilah sounding way older than she actually is) it's a school night and I, for one, have to be up for work the next morning, so looks like we'll be heading out to a Friday screening, despite his anguished pleas of "Let's just cut school!". _

_I wasn't sure when I'd be able to update, becuase we have parent-teacher conferences next weel, so getting the report cards and stuff in order has been a real chore. I felt guilty, though, as this character was requested months ago by one of my reviewers and it took me this long to get a handle on her._

_I speak, of course, of Roxanne Weasley. She's rather mysterious, no? I drew from a time-honored family tradition: claiming that oneself or one's siblings happen to be adopted. Roxanne's blood runs cold at this possibility...because she can't find any evidence to the contrary. Enjoy!_

* * *

In-Between

Roxanne Weasley studied her reflection in the highly-polished looking glass most attentively. Her eyes traveled over the lightly freckled nose, the high cheekbones, the coarse brown hair and delicate mocha skin of the girl in the mirror. Then she glanced back down at the book.

It was a large, heavy, leather-bound book. Its sturdy parchment pages were papered with wizarding photographs. Men, women and children—all waving, all smiling up at her. Her family.

There were Grandma and Granddad Weasley, looking almost completely unrecognizable. They were dancing, it seemed, to some sort of slow song. They looked no older than eighteen, and it was only due to the caption that Roxanne could even tell who the smiling lovers in the photograph were.

Still searching, Roxanne turned the page. _It has to be in here somewhere; it just __has__ to…_

Uncle Bill, before his face got mangled…_Grandma was right, he _was _a handsome little boy!_ Roxanne scanned the young boy's handsome face for the features she was so accustomed to seeing staring back at her in the mirror each morning, but gave up with a sigh. She traced her fingertip across the page until it landed on a yellowed picture of a boy and girl playing outdoors. Uncle Ron and Aunt Ginny, though very small in this old picture, were easily recognizable. Their faces may have grown more mature, but they were still basically the same. Even as a little boy, Uncle Ron had had that long nose; Aunt Ginny's eyes had not lost their sparkle over the years. A tide of hope rose, unbidden, in Roxanne's stomach. _Maybe one of them—_

But, no. Roxanne's nose was rather shorter and broader; she was not as lanky as her uncle, nor was she small and delicate like her aunt. More dead ends.

Flipping more rapidly through the pages in increasing desperation, Roxanne searched for a photograph of her parents. Surely if she resembled anyone it the family, it would be one of them.

And there it was. George and Angelina, arms around each other's waists as Angelina brandished her left hand at the camera, where a ring glittered, proudly displayed for all to see. Roxanne took a steadying breath and studied her own features in the mirror once more, committing them firmly to memory and at the same time, postponing the frightening possibility that she would not see her face in neither George's nor Angelina's.

Of course, she looked into her parent's faces every day and had never given their appearances much thought before. It was only a few days ago, upon seeing Uncle Harry playing with little Albus that it struck Roxanne how alike father and son looked. Immediately, the laws of inheritance and family resemblance became her latest obsession. Her insides jolted every time she heard mention of 'Weasley red' hair or 'Mum and Dad's damned freckles that I got cursed with…' And before long, Roxanne had committed long hours to the pursuit of her own lookalike.

_Uncle Fred and Dad looked just the same_, she thought, _but they're twins, so that's something else altogether. All the Weasleys look like Grandma and Grandad—Uncle Charlie, Aunt Ginny and Dad look more like their mum, and Uncle Ron, Uncle Percy and Uncle Bill all look like Grandad. Mummy looks like her dad, too; they have the exact same face._

Unable to continue in this vein much longer, Roxanne examined the picture. There was George—buttermilk skin covered in copious amounts of freckles, the trademark vivid Weasley red hair, shorter and stockier than his younger brother Ron. And there, beside him, was Angelina. Her black hair was set in dozens of sleek, narrow braids, which were in turn swept back into a high ponytail. Her dark eyes glittered like the brand-new ring on her slender photographic finger. She looked jubilant as she leaned her chocolate-colored cheek against that of her fiancé.

Roxanne looked down dejectedly. She was neither fair and freckly like her father, nor dark and elegant like her mother. She was an anomaly.

"What's all this?" said Angelina's melodious voice from behind Roxanne. She saw her mother's perplexed reflection in the mirror behind her. Mirror-Angelina put a hand on Mirror-Roxanne's shoulder, who debated shrugging it off in her frustration. She pulled away and wheeled around to face her mother.

"Was I adopted?" she asked in all sincerity. Angelina laughed heartily, breaking off only when she saw the look on Roxanne's face: a combination of dejection, frustration and hurt.

"Did your dad tell you that? 'Cause he's been telling your Uncle Ron that for years…"

"I _mean_ it, Mum! I don't look like anyone in the whole family! I must have been adopted!"

The corners of Angelina's mouth twitched in an effort not to laugh. "Are you serious?" she asked, commending herself on her ability to maintain a straight face.

"Dead serious," confirmed Roxanne. "Al looks just like Uncle Harry, Fred looks like Dad…"

"Hey, he's got some of me in there, too," insisted Angelina. Roxanne shrugged dispiritedly, carelessly closing the heavy leather album and sinking onto the upholstered stool before her mother's dressing table. Angelina didn't answer. She turned and stalked off toward her bed.

_Great_, thought Roxanne, _Mum's gonna tell me the truth. I wonder what happened to my real parents…_

"So, did you and Daddy find me somewhere? I bet I'm a war orphan," she opined on sudden inspiration. Angelina snorted. "Your dad and I weren't even _married_ yet when the war ended," she called over her shoulder as she rummaged in the drawer of her bedside cabinet.

Roxanne looked up to see her mother—_adoptive mother?_—holding a framed photograph. She knelt down beside Roxanne, who had stopped swinging her legs in anxious anticipation and sat, coiled and tense as a spring ready to pop. Angelina leaned in close, tapping the glass with a fingertip. The little photographic people inside pushed off sideways, clear of her intruding finger. Photo-George made some overly-exuberant gestures at Angelina, expressing a melodramatic indignation disproportionate to the offense committed. Angelina deftly ignored this.

"Look," she began, gesturing for the photograph's occupants to move into greater prominence. "See that nose you've got there? You know where you've seen that nose before? Have a look, right on the face of that prat in the picture," she said, affectionately stroking the glass over George's face. Roxanne leaned in for a closer look, desperately trying not to get her hopes up. Could it be true? Did she really share in the family resemblance?

Angelina, meanwhile, pressed on. "And those eyes? They're the same as my mum's. The day you were born, they put you in my arms and you looked up at me with those big, brown eyes and it was like I was looking at my mum, staring at me from this little baby's body."

Roxanne was entranced. _Why_ had she never seen it before?

"Your body is all me, though," continued Angelina in an amused voice. "No need to thank me. I can already tell you'll grow up to be tall athletic…just like your mum."

She flipped idly through the discarded album, noting Roxanne's resemblance to the photos' sitters on each page.

"I think you've got Uncle Ron to thank for that mane of yours; you've seen how thick and unmanageable it gets when he runs his hands through it…oh, look, there's that picture of me with my sister on my wedding day! See how you've inherited her coloring? The freckles come straight from your father's side, though—don't tell me you haven't noticed!"

And on and on it went. The room grew dark around them as mother and daughter sat by the dressing table, ignorant of the sun setting below the horizon out the window behind their heads, or of Fred's repeated cries from one of the adjacent rooms as he inquired—yet _again_—when he was going to get some supper.

"_Mum!_ Are we eating anytime tonight? _Please_ don't let Dad try and cook again; you remember what happened last time!"

Angelina jumped to her feet, seemingly surprised at the time that had escaped her. She dropped the album in her daughter's lap and bustled off downstairs, wondering aloud to herself what she could possibly make for dinner and how she never really liked cooking much, anyway.

Roxanne ran a hand unconsciously over the smooth leather cover. Warmth seemed to seep from the book's miraculous pages up through her fingertips and into her very core. The sound of her mother's voice, smooth as silk and steady as a heartbeat, drummed in her ears, speaking words of comfort and reassurance. She had ties to the rest of the family after all—nose and ears and skin and freckles! Uncle Charlie's love of animals, Aunt Ginny's breathless laugh…at last, Roxanne knew who she was, where she belonged. She had been right, of course…she had no doppelganger, not even close. She was no carbon copy of any of the Weasleys, nor any of the Johnsons, for that matter. She lived in the in-between, the gray area between one family and the other. The best of both worlds…

_Well_, thought Roxanne with a grin as she replaced the album on its shelf, _next time Dad teases me about not inheriting all his 'good looks', I'll just tell him I only took the best parts!_ And with that, she skipped out through the bedroom door and down the hall to await her dinner.

* * *

_Well, there you go. What did you think? I wasn't sure what to do with Roxanne, and I wanted to do something a little...unpredictable. I can certainly see her being a veritable mix of both parent and wondering where she fits into the family, though. I think a lot of kids go through that 'am I adopted?' phase; some even hope for it. My cousin insists that she's Canadian. Then again, she think's Shreveport's the far north, so Canada must seem like another planet to her, much like New York._

_Anyway, please review and I hope to be back with another chapter for you soon! And Happy (belated) Halloween!_

_On va se 'oir,_

_Delilah_


	33. Jolie Blonde

_And, in thanksgiving of a long-awaited day off tomorrow, Delilah presents: Chapter 33! I just noticed that this story has eclipsed 60,000 words as of last chapter. It seems I've had a lot to say, not that that would surprise anyone who knows me well. _

_This is another lighthearted chapter, though the next one might be heavy (I'm not sure who's getting posted yet, see the end of this chapter for details). _

_Special thanks to reviewers, alerts and favorites: you do me too much honor, me. Here it goes, Delilah's Hall of Fame: **X59, Ice of the Kitsune's Fire, dancergirl7, Bookworm41, Blonde Pickle Mule, SheWhoDancesWithPeacocks, Amri Ishvique, mystery muffin, prizbokc, Penitent Rebel, sg1robinson, Louey06, RedCloakedMaiden, Jezabel Raewin, How To Munch Death 101 **and** Blondebunny55. **You are all amazing. For once, words fail me. _

_This chapter is dedicated to my little sister, who is very much like the young Fleur presented in this chapter. She's a _jolie blonde_ as well. I, on the other hand, am a brunette. No regrets._

_Does anyone recognize the title? Special bonus points if you do! Do take a guess; honorable mention for those who figure it out. It's not that tricky, though...just maybe a little off the beaten path._

_Enjoy!_

_PS-This title is absolutely refusing to center. I hate technology._

* * *

Jolie Blonde

She was beautiful. Beautiful, beautiful.

Slivery-blonde hair cascading down her back like a pale, moonlit river. Eyes like glimmering sapphires. Slender, delicate.

Her mama called her a _petite_ _fleur_—her little flower. Perhaps _that's_ where her name came from. Her papa called her his _jolie blonde_, pretty blonde.

M. Delacour always said that he was a lucky man. "Three beautiful women," he would chuckle, "I must be the envy of every other man in France!" "Oh, Papa!" Fleur would giggle.

"Someday, _ma chere_, you'll be beating those young men off with a stick!" At this, she would giggle even harder as her father added that perhaps she would let him do the honor.

But Monsieur Delacour knew what he was talking about. Even at nine years old, his daughter was poised and lovely. Heads would turn in Fleur's direction should she stroll down the streets in town, and whispers of "What an enchanting child!" would follow her. It seemed that she was a creature from another world altogether. She cast a sort of spell on the unwary, dazzling them.

* * *

Apolline Delacour adjusted her hat and stepped out the door, smiling as her little daughter brushed past her in a great hurry. Fleur sped down the steps, stopped and stretched out her arms, tilting her face back to take in the late morning sun. The sunlight glimmered in her silvery hair. It was as though the golden rays entered her very skin and infused her with radiance. Nature itself seemed to revel in the girl's strange beauty.

"Where are we going, Maman?" asked the little girl.

"To run a few errands," replied Apolline, without elaborating. And without another word, the pair of them headed into town. Apolline strolled non-concernedly, breathing in the smell of the late-springtime flowers festooning gardens and window-boxes and the morning dew that had settled on their leaves. Fleur, however, skipped merrily along the pavement, grinning broadly and every now and then executing a joyful pirouette. _I love going out shopping with Maman_, she thought. _Maybe she'll buy me a special surprise!_

The _p__â__tisserie_ was bustling with customers eager to obtain their Sunday dessert confections before it got to be too late in the day. Fleur held her mother's hand obediently, people-watching with great interest as the pair of them slowly edged toward the counter.

"Madame?" asked the woman behind the counter. She was older, but her face held the signs of great, not entirely faded beauty: faint laugh lines and smile lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes; neat, even streaks of grey in her auburn hair.

Apolline launched into dialogue with the woman, debating which pastries would make a nice ending to their Sunday dinner. Fleur dropped her mother's hand and pressed her nose to the glass counter, eyeing the delectable-looking cakes and pastries with wide eyes.

"Delicious looking, _n'est pas?"_ asked the woman, looking down at the top of the girl's head, her face obscured, still pressed against the glass display. A hungry child was a gift from the baking gods, for in order to forestall whining impatience, the child's mother was sure to buy _something_: a cookie, a pastry, maybe even a cake. Visions of sales danced in the baker's head as she launched into a prepared pitch. "Perhaps your _maman—_"

She broke off as Fleur looked up, her sapphire eyes glittering with mirth. Struck speechless, the baker simply stared at the little girl, who seemed to glow silvery-bright in the midst of the rows of golden cookies, the sugar-dusted cakes and delicate sculpted pastries. She racked her brain for the words to complete the sale, but found the inside of her head buzzing, her mind unhelpfully blank. "_Laq__uelle est-ce que tu veux__?"_ The words seemed to come from someone else, though she felt her lips form them. Little Fleur beamed and pointed at a tray of cookies. The baker's hand wrapped around a pair of marzipan cookies and she found herself, against her better judgment, pressing the marzipan into the little girl's palm.

Apolline Delacour emerged from the pastry shop laden with boxes of treats ("For _after_ dinner!" she insisted) and accompanied by Fleur, delightedly munching her cookies.

The next stop was the market, where Apolline stocked up on fresh vegetables, a plump chicken and a couple of flaky loaves of bread, still warm from the oven. _I could be done shopping, and on my way home by now_, she thought, _if only I didn't have to keep running after—mon Dieu, where did she get off to now?_

Apolline scanned the crowd of Sunday morning shoppers for a head of silvery hair, that smile…where was she? She cursed herself inwardly for having lost sight of her daughter for even a moment…

She didn't have far to look. Laden with shopping, she stalked towards her daughter, who was seated on the front step of a sweetshop. Trust Fleur to locate the one sweetshop in the vicinity. In one hand, she held a gleaming, juicy candied apple; in the other, an ice cream. The sweetest puppy sat at her side, its furry chin resting gently on her knee, its sad eyes following the progress of the ice cream as she brought it to her lips.

"Fleur!" cried Apolline in exasperation. The girls looked up, mildly interested as her mother struggled to decide which question to voice first.

"Whose dog is that?"

"Can I keep him?" pleaded Fleur, her eyes shining with longing, very much like those of the dog. Apolline shook her head. "Absolutely not. Your papa's allergic."

"But I've already named him!"

"Too bad. Where did you get…all that?

Fleur shrugged, still smiling. "People gave them to me," she said sweetly.

"You have no money! You can't just take whatever you want!"

Fleur shook her head in abject denial of the charge laid before her. It was odd, a strangely grown-up gesture. She raised her chin just a bit, looking vaguely puzzled, as if the question made no sense, or rather it were voiced in some incomprehensible language.

"I didn't _take_ them, Maman," she explained with painstaking patience, as though she were delineating some incomprehensibly simple information to someone very thick-headed. "They just _gave_ them to me."

Looking up, Apolline noted that passers-by would slow down to nudge each other and look at the little angel with softened expressions. A young couple strolling arm-in-arm gazed at her almost lovingly, the husband lightly stroking his expectant wife's slightly rounded belly. "_Quelle jolie blonde_, eh?" he murmured to her as she nodded. "Just like our '_tit_ _fille_ will be!"

"Or _fils_," she said gently, a hand resting on his arm. "There could be a little boy in here, you know."

Apolline felt her frustration evaporating as she resigned herself to the inevitable. Yes, she _was_ a real _jolie blonde_, her winsome daughter. Those blue eyes, that smile…a perfect little porcelain doll. A delicate flower whose angelic disposition gave little sign of the maddening stubbornness within. No wonder shopkeepers were so eager to give her little gifts and free samples. She was the essence of everything adorable. And, remembering her own childhood as a similarly endearing pretty blonde, Apolline figured that maybe she should just…let it be. _Though I was never so cheeky_, she reflected with a wry smile. _Heaven knows what I'll do as she grows up; she'll be a real spitfire. I certainly hope her father's got that bat ready…the boys, they love a sassy _jolie blonde_…_

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_Suffice it to say that my sister got free stuff from shopkeepers for many years. Our very own Fleur._

_Well, I'd love to hear from you, readers. You've been very kind with your replies, and so generous, that I'm afraid I'm getting a little spoiled! And don't forget to show off a little and have a guess at where I got my chapter title. It's not just a translation...or is it? Usually I explain my title choices if they signify anything, but I figured I'd have a little fun this time around._

_Some works in progress:_

_Peter Pettigrew-I've got a little over a page written. It's kind of sad. Bullies (and their lackeys) are made, not born._

_Albus Severus Potter-Remember those 'serious talks' Al shared with Harry, which James mentioned? Prepare to witness one!_

_Hannah Abbot-A happy moment with her mom on a glorious summer day._

_I also have a few ideas chasing each other around my brain which have not been started yet. Ideas are alwasy accepted and fed to the Idea Box, to germinate until a story idea takes root. _

_Until my next update or your review, then, and Happy Veterans' Day (or Armistice Day, if that's what's more familiar) to all!_

_On va se 'oir,_

_Delilah_


	34. Almost Famous

_Merry Christmas, readers! I hope everyone is in the midst of a joyous and happy holiday season, and for those of who who are not celebrating a holiday at the moment, that you are awaiting a New Year filled with happiness and prosperity._

_We're buried under a heavy banket of snow here in New York, so it looks like I got the white Christmas I'd been hoping for, after all. The snow is so beautiful, glimmering in the sunshine, and even though it's so deep I can't get out of the house (up to my sister's hips when she went out to shovel, and she's quite a bit talller than me), it's so nice to watch. Not to say our magical Christmas snow didn't cause some problems, though-my relatives' fights back home have been cancelled, so some are still stuck at their hotels, others still camping out at our place until it's safe to fly again, Needless to say, our house is rather crowded at the moment. _

_I apologize, as I often feel the need to do, for the slow updates. Writer's block, the holiday frenzy, my nasty principal's troublemaking at work and the irresistable allure of the Rankin-Bass holiday marathon on TV are all culprits here. But do not despair, because for today, the third day of Christmas, I bring not three French hens, but a new chapter, featuring Harry's middle child, Al, as requested by **X59**. Though he is the last of Harry's children who remained for me to write, I felt the desire to take it slow and write him with care, as he and Harry seem to share a very special bond. And yes, one of those 'serious talks' mentioned in James Sirius' chapter does make an appearance!_

_Congrats to **Louey06**, whose guess regarding the significance of last chapter's title was closest. Yes, _Jolie Blonde_ is a song title-a very old, very famous waltz sometimes called the 'Cajun National Anthem'. It's one of my favortie songs. And yes, it does mean 'pretty blonde'. _

_Last but not least, before we begin, the Christmas edition of Delilah's Reviewers Hall of Fame! A hundred, thousand thank-yous to the following incredibly awesome readers: **X59, AchillesMonkey, dancergirl7, prizbokc, Jezabel R**_**_aewin, SheWhoDancesWithPeacocks, Blonde Pickle Mule, Louey06, A Random Person, excessivelyperky, boy in the corner _**_and_**_ Muggle Creator._**_ Special thanks is also extended to all those who did me the honor of putting this story on Alerts and Favorites. You've all made me have a very merry Christmas!_

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Almost Famous

The little family stood on the platform, waiting patiently for the arrival of the train. The mother turned around every minute of so to adjust her little daughter's hat, or detangle the scarf from around her neck to allow the bottom part of her face to peek through. "Stand _still_, Lily," she murmured.

As Ginny Potter fussed over her daughter, crowds of parents awaiting the arrival of their own children cast curious glances at the man standing beside Mrs. Potter. Harry Potter, easily the greatest hero of modern times, was instantly recognizable. Those round glasses, the unmanageable hair, and of course the infamous lightning scar. "Look, Mummy, look—it's him! It's Harry Potter!" squeaked a small girl around Lily's age as her mother dragged her along the platform.

"Yes, dear, I know, but it's rude to point," replied her mother absentmindedly.

"Who's that boy standing with him?" the girl asked, refusing to be brushed off so easily. Her mother cast a hurried glance over her shoulder. "His son, I guess. He looks just like him."

Albus frowned. _Here we go again,_ he thought to himself. _Harry Potter's son. Why is it always 'Harry Potter's son'?_

It was indeed always 'Harry Potter's son'. At the apothecary, at Madam Malkin's, on the street…no one ever thought to ask Albus his name, or indeed acknowledge that he might even have a name other than Harry Potter's Son. It was like being famous, thought Albus, except not famous in his own right. _Almost famous…that's what I am_.

That would soon change, of course. In another year or two, he'd be off to Hogwarts. Perhaps there, finally, he'd be able to forge an identity of his own?

But no! That happy thought was wiped from Albus' mind as he realized his own surroundings. The little family was bundled up for winter's worst, standing on Platform 9¾ to await James' return from his first term at Hogwarts. Harry and Ginny were visibly excited to be welcoming home their firstborn son from his first extended stay away from home, but to Al and Lily, James' return simply heralded the arrival of Christmas—which, after all, was much more important and exciting than seeing their big brother for the first time since September. _When I get to Hogwarts, _reflected Al miserably, _if they're not calling me 'Harry Potter's son', they'll be calling me 'James' brother'!_ This terrifying prospect was, of course, infinitely worse than simply being singled out as the son of a war hero.

Albus' thoughts were cut short as the scarlet Hogwarts Express lurched to a stop with a great hiss of steam and students towing their enormous trunks began to emerge from its many doors. "There he is!" Ginny practically shrieked, and Albus and Lily exchanged a glance, both trying to suppress their laughter as James, acting supremely cool, sauntered over to his family with the air of one who owned the entire station. It appeared that, following his departure on September first, James had promptly shed the nervousness that had caused him to whimper pitifully like a little girl before leaving and acquired in its place a bravado that made him too cool to even kiss his mother in greeting—which, Al and Lily noted with a laugh, Ginny refused to accept, planting a big, ostentatious kiss right on his forehead in front of an assortment of older students.

Upon their arrival at home, James trailed after his parents, still in full disclosure of the many wonders of Hogwarts he had discovered during his mere four months there (_He talks like he's been there a million years,_ thought Albus. _When did he get to be such an expert?_) Ginny nodded wearily in between admonitions against the mischief he son had managed to get himself into during his first term—"You're just like your Uncles Fred and George! Who even told you that there _were _secret passageways out of the castle anyway?" "Er…no one, Mum! I swear, not one human being (here, Harry raised an eyebrow in apparent understanding) told me any such thing!" Finally, Harry excused himself to his office, muttering something about having to wrap presents while Lily trotted off to tend to her dolls, abandoning Ginny with the still-rhapsodizing James. Not wanting to witness more of his brother's Hogwarts tales, Albus trailed after his father.

The door to Harry's office was open; unusual, considering that he claimed to be wrapping Christmas gifts. Albus hesitated for a moment, wondering if he would be bothering his father by stepping inside, but decided to risk it in the end. Anything was better than standing there aimlessly in the hallways, or worse—listening to James' overenthusiastic review of each and every one of his roommates' admirable qualities.

"Al?" asked Harry, looking up upon seeing his son. Rather than wrapping presents, he had been scanning the sports pages of the _Daily Prophet_. "What's going on?"

Albus settled himself in a nearby armchair, curled tight with his knees drawn in to his body. "Nothing," he murmured in a flat, expressionless voice that matched the inexplicable void he'd felt ever since being 'recognized' (for lack of a better word) at King's Cross earlier that day.

"It doesn't look like nothing," prompted Harry wisely. "I know that kind of 'nothing' always means _something_. Care to share?"

Deciding at once that his father really did know everything, Albus launched into his tale of woe.

"…And she said 'Oh, that must be his son. He looks just like him.'!"

"How horrifying," remarked Harry blandly. "Son, I'm truly sorry I couldn't give you the genes for stunning good looks. I'm afraid your Uncle Ron possesses those, at least if you ask him." Albus giggled as Harry went on, "I know it can't be much fun for you, getting recognized everywhere you go. I don't like it much, either, and it's been happening to me since I was James' age. I won't even say that you'll get used to it after a while, because after years and years, it can _still_ be a right pain."

"But it's not just _that_," insisted Albus. "No one ever thinks about me for…me." He struggled to put this difficult realization into words, his face screwing up in concentration as he reached his epiphany.

"You're so famous, no matter _what_ I do when I grow up, I'll never be as good as you, Dad. You beat the most evilest bad guy ever in the history of forever! You're on a Chocolate Frog card! You have a cool-looking scar! I'll _never_ be that awesome…"

Harry nodded, waiting for his son to continue. Albus, meanwhile, was nowhere near finished. His voice raised in anguish as he catalogued the famous wizards he'd never be able to live up to.

"Mum and Aunt Hermione and Uncle George and everyone in the family are all war heroes, and Uncle Ron is incredibly famous (_says Ron_, thought Harry). When I go to Hogwarts, everyone will think I'm just James' little brother, and everything I do will be no big deal, 'cause James did it first." On this note, he let out an impressive sigh and jutted out his lower lip in a resigned pout.

"What a litany of woe!" declared Harry, not unkindly. He nodded as though to emphasize the justness of each and every one of his son's troubles. "Why, Albus Severus Potter, you've had it rough, there's no denying that!"

Upon mention of his full name, Albus' expression darkened. "Even my name is no good," he moped. Harry raised an eyebrow, clearly awaiting an explanation.

"You were named for two of the greatest wizards I'd ever known," Harry offered. "What's so bad about that? Your Uncle George wanted us to name you after one of his new products, like some sort of free advertisement."

Albus shook his head. "But one of the blokes you named me after was like the smartest, powerfullest wizard ever! Everyone says so! So when people see me, they think, 'That's Albus, but not the greatest wizard of all time named Albus. The _other_ one. And the other one, from my middle name, was a spy, right? And what's cooler than being a _spy_? I'm not cool. And my surname just tells everyone that I'm your son, but not the oldest one. The middle one that no one cares about."

Harry smiled, clearly willing his son to see just how special, how exciting, how infinitely 'cool' he really was.

"We gave you those names because when you were born, we knew that someday you too would be brave and wise and powerful and cunning…all of it. We knew that someday, you'd find your place in the world, and whatever you decided to do with your life, you'd do so well that people far and wide would say—"There goes Albus Severus Potter! Surely you've _heard_ of him?" And I'd be a little old man, reading my newspaper and people would point and whisper behind their hands, "Isn't that Albus Severus Potter's father? I wonder what it must be like to have such a great wizard as your son!" That day will come, Al, don't you worry. It will. But for now, your job is to grow up and work hard so that when it _does_ come, you're ready for it. Do you think you're up to it?"

Albus nodded, the vivid green eyes he'd inherited from his grandmother Lily shining with the splendid vision of such greatness. And as he scampered off to play, Harry was irresistibly reminded of another small boy, just a bit older than Albus, who harbored the same doubts many years ago…

"_Everyone thinks I'm special," _the boy had said, struggling to find the words, _"All those people at the Leaky Cauldron, Professor Quirrell, Mr. Ollivander…but I don't know anything about magic at all. How can they expect great things? I'm famous and I can't even remember what I'm famous for. I don't know what happened when Vol-, sorry—I mean, the night my parents died."_

Heaving a reminiscent sigh, Harry turned back to his newspaper. _He'll be just fine,_ he comforted himself. _I was, and he will be, too_.

* * *

_I hope you all enjoyed Al's chapter and it was worth the wait; if not, I do apologize. i am trying to get some writing done during my week off so that I can update within a decent amount of time. I know I've said this before, but it does get very difficult with work and all. Hopefully, since I'm off this week, I can make some progress. Don't hesitate to send me your requests. So far, my WIP box contains Hannah Abbot, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Peter Pettigrew, Dominique Weasley, Luna Lovegood, Colin Creevey, Albus Dumbledore and Tom Riddle. A few of them have been started; others are in planning. _

_Once again, a Merry Christmas to all! Please **review** as your Christmas present to me!_

_Joyeux Noël et on va se 'oir, mes amis,_

_Delilah_


	35. Mermaids

_Hello, everyone! Happy New Year to all! Did anyone make a resolution? Mine's to try to update more regularly. I find myself in a bit of a post-holidays slump and that made writing extra difficult, but here today I bring you the next chapter. It felt weird writing about summer fun as the snow falls outside my window._

_On the sunny side, we've got Hannah coming in to you this afternoon. Enjoy a fanciful summer mother-daughter moment. It was so sad when Mrs. Abbot was killed in HBP and Hannah was informed of the sad news in Herbology, only to disappear from school for an unspecified amount of time. Please accept this humble chapter as a tribute to the woman who raised Hannah to be the sort of girl who'd stand up to her housemates for a boy she doesn't even know that well—"But he always seems so nice…and besides, he made You-Know-Who go away, so he can't be all bad, can he?" (a paraphrase of Hannah to Ernie in CoS)._

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Mermaids

The waves crashed thunderously in the distance. Salty water pounded against the sand and the smooth pebbles of the seashore. Gleeful holidaymakers dotted the beach, luxuriating in the sun, building fanciful castles out of damp, gritty sand. Not far away, a seagull picked hopefully at discarded paper wrappings concealing a mostly-eaten sandwich.

Beside a deserted tidepool, a rosy-cheeked blonde girl poked at a starfish with a broken reed. Her eyes widening as the starfish squelched and contracted slightly, her gaze wandered to a seashell trapped and half-buried in the sand.

Prying it out with care, Hannah examined it. It was a real prize—speckled, with strange pinkish swirls. Very unlike the usual dull, chipped, granite-colored clamshell fragments that she usually found along the seashore.

"What've you got there, love?" asked a voice from behind Hannah as she admired the shell. Its source was a small, slender woman with plump, pinchable cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes very like those possessed by her daughter.

"A seashell," said Hannah without preamble, holding up her treasure for her mother's inspection. "That's a beauty," she said admiringly. Struck by sudden inspiration, Hannah positioned the seashell at her temple, much like a young woman would stick a flower from her lover behind her ear. Her mother smiled.

"You look like a mermaid," she remarked. And it was true—with her long, blonde hair (windswept and smelling of sun and sea) and her bright, smiling face, lightly freckled from the sun, Hannah would look completely natural sunning herself on a rock far out to sea, combing her long golden hair.

"Really?" asked the girl in delight. She had heard bedtime tales of mermaids, mostly fantasy stories of beautiful marine maidens that departed considerably from the unromantic reality of cold, grayish lake-dwellers. Stretching the truth in this case was mere poetic license, thought Mrs. Abbot, and children need a little poetry in their lives.

"Look, Mummy!" squealed Hannah, weaving the dark seaweed through her golden tresses. Laughing merrily, the girl stretched out luxuriously on a flat, sun-warmed expanse of rock and began to hum a little tune, as sirens were wont to do. She playfully tossed a handful of seaweed at her mother.

"And what's all this?" her mother asked, smiling.

"Now we can be mermaids together," replied the girl. Anne Abbot nodded her head slightly in silent understanding, then wove a few strands of seaweed into her own blonde locks. It smelled of salt and summertime.

"Come on!" cried Hannah, pulling her mother to her feet and towards the water. "Mermaids belong in the sea, Mummy!"

This, however, was easier said than done, in Anne's opinion. The frothy water was chilly, even in the direct sun, and she gasped slightly as it rushed in unexpectedly around her ankles and toes. She inched in, slowly, as Hannah beckoned to her from deeper waters. "Not too far, Hannah," Anne called out as the chilly water lapped around her thighs.

Hannah didn't respond. She was giggling, watching her mother tiptoe out to sea at a pace matching that of your average sea slug, and a brilliant idea crossed her mind. Moving as quickly as she could without splashing and causing all sorts of noise, Hannah backtracked around her mother. Mrs. Abbot was still plowing determinedly forward, shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun on the water's surface, and she hadn't noticed that her daughter had vanished from her line of sight. Hannah took careful aim, mentally estimating the distance between mother and daughter.

"Hannah?" looking up, Anne noticed for the first time that she had been deserted, completely alone in her stretch of ocean, save for a middle-aged man floating on some sort of inflatable raft as his skin slowly turned a sun-kissed pink. "Hannah? Where did you go?"

Several loud splashes caused Anne to wheel around on the spot. The last thing she saw before the impact was a grinning girl—or was it a mermaid?—with shells as seaweed woven into her tresses, barreling towards her. Hannah leapt out of the water, jumping right on her mother and in the process knocking her over into the surf. Both sank below the surface into a blue-green world of slow-moving silence. It was as though time stood still, for a moment at least.

Their bedraggled heads broke the surface simultaneously. "Hannah Abbot, what on _Earth_ did you do that for?" demanded her mother, half exasperated and mildly amused. Little Hannah shrugged, trying for a contrite expression but failing to mask her glee.

"Dad always says that it's easier just to jump in right away, and then you won't get cold," she offered by way of explanation. Anne was momentarily speechless. "And what else did your father tell you?"

"To do this!" shrieked Hannah, and she splashed her mother giddily.

"Ooh, now you'd better watch out!" teased Anne, and she splashed back, the two of them roaring with laughter.

The sun grew lower on the horizon as they frolicked in the surf, mother and daughter jumping in the waves, hand in hand. They chased each other up and down the wet, sandy shore and wrote their names in the sand with the smooth pebbles they collected at the water's edge. Deftly plucking a driftwood twig from the sand and sticking it proudly into the topmost turret of their elaborate sand castle, Hannah declared with satisfaction, "Look! It's Hogwarts!"

"Shh!" her mother giggled, nudging her gently. "You never know who's listening…"

As the sun finally sank below the horizon, the woman and girl sat on the pier, dangling their legs over the edge, Mrs. Abbot brushing the salt water out of her daughter's hair and tying it back into pigtails, noting with amusement how her little girl metamorphosed from a mermaid into a maiden, almost instantaneously. Taking her hand and gathering up their blanket, the woman led her daughter back towards a deserted spot, where she could Apparate them home to Hannah's father and the dinner he likely had simmering already on the stove, ready for their arrival. As they walked, Hannah clutched her prized seashell, relic of that wonderful day she'd spent at the beach with her mum, and reminder of how, for an afternoon, at least, they'd both been mermaids, frolicking without a care in the crashing waves of the sea.

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_I hope everyone enjoyed Hannah's chapter. As the story of Hannah and her mother turns out so sadly, I wanted to give them a beautiful afternoon together that, years later, Hannah could treasure. I like to think she set her seashell on her wardrobe and can take it down, from time to time, and remember that day._

_As always, my friends, please review! I do hope that this speedier-than-it's-been-lately update was agreeable to all of you; I really try, but I don't want to compromise by sending out not-quite-finished chapters. I really don't intend to sometimes have such a long stretch between chapters, but between work and grad school, it's hard to find the time, and with my boss being a nasty (insert your choice of word here) most of the time, inspiration is thin on the ground._

_I'm afraid I can't preview the next chapter, as I have three that all have about the same amount written and I'm not sure which will be ready first. As usual, your suggestions are alway added to my works in progress._

_On va se 'oir,_

_Delilah_


	36. Unpredictable as the Weather

_Hello, everyone! This chapter came about in response to one of my readers' requests for more stories about the Hogwarts staff. It was raining here yesterday, and even though it's February and it's cold and dreary and the while city's still covered in the filthyoyfrien remnants of many snowstorms, it made me think of the fun I used to have running around in the rain in summertime. My boyfriend and I even spent our first date running down the city streets in a gale of rain, laughing all the way as I tried to keep my hat firmly attached to my head. I have a special liking for the rain, I think._

_Well, I hope everyone enjoys it. I have a feeling that it's kind of short, but I liked the note it ended on, so I merely left it at that._

_By the way: forgot to post my Reviewers' Hall of Fame last time, so here goes: Special thanks to **excessivelyperky, boy in the corner, MuggleCreator, Bri P., ctc, Quill of McGonagall, Louey06, prizbokc, dancergirl7, Iris, Bookworm41, SheWhoDancesWithPeacocks, A Random Person, samira parsa, Miss Teinge, Dimcairien, AchillesMonkey, xandromedax, Gryffindor Glory, junebugbug96, Anonymous, Rheeya, swoobleswirl, lelah-t, **and **anyone who added this story to their Favorites or Alerts**. (I think this covers every review I've got since Christmas). Seriously, you guys are the best, and your encouragement is what inspires me to get my rear in gear and update!_

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Unpredictable as the Weather

"Goodbye, love," Edward Trelawney said brusquely as he kissed his wife and picked up his briefcase, heading for the door.

"Daddy, wait!" he stopped, turning vaguely toward the stairs, the direction the voice had issued from. A little girl was flying down the steps, a whirlwind of frizzy brown hair and flying sleeves. She tripped theatrically on the second-to-last step, landed on the ground with a thud and immediately sprung to her feet, brushing herself off nonchalantly. Her father stood, hand still poised to open the door, staring at his daughter's unconventional entrance.

Little Sibyll adjusted her glasses and stood importantly before her father. "Don't forget your umbrella," she said authoritatively.

At this, her parents' eyes met over her head. They exchanged a look that was half-exasperated, half-pitying.

"Sibyll, dear, you've been saying it's going to rain all week," her mother began, pulling back the curtains so the golden summer sunshine could stream in. Sibyll took no notice of this.

Mr. Trelawney opened the door. An enveloping glow of daylight illuminated their silhouettes. "Look," he said, inwardly berating himself for having confessed his great-grandmother's fame as a Seer. _I clearly didn't inherit her foresight, _he thought, recalling the night he'd come up short while casting his mind around for a bedtime story and finally leaned in, whispering "Did I ever tell you about my great-grandmother Cassandra?" Sibyll had shook her head mutely, her eyes wide and shining. "No? well, that's surprising—I mean, she was a legend!"

"Was she?" asked his daughter in barely-concealed disbelief. "Why?"

"Why, she was only the most celebrated Seer of modern times!" he replied. Sibyll let out an impressed sigh as he continued, telling her of the many famous, sometimes history-making predictions their famous ancestress had made. Ever since that night, Sibyll had seemed to find a new sense of purpose. She was unarguably convinced that she, too, was possessed of second sight, that such things commonly skipped three generations, and that someday she would also make a prophecy of Earth-shattering importance that would alter the course of history.

Unfortunately for her, neither of Sibyll's parents could detect even the faintest glimmer of clairvoyance. Perhaps this was because Sibyll was somewhat clumsy and could barely see without her thick glasses. "_Second_ sight?" her mother had chuckled one night, after Sibyll was tucked in bed and Edward was informing his wife of their daughter's latest failed 'prophesy'. "I'd be happy if she had _regular_ sight. She tripped down the stairs again, today, dear—maybe we should have them carpeted…"

But she hadn't been deterred in the least, even after what must have amounted to hundreds, even thousands of predictions that never came true. And here they stood, father, mother and daughter, basking in the morning sun and the sense of pity over yet another failed attempt and permeating the veiled mysteries of the future.

"It's going to rain today," insisted Sibyll, her lower lip jutting out defiantly. Her mother noted that her spectacles were slightly askew and her hair, which had previously been tied back in the most darling little ribbon, was now completely untidy, one errant lock falling into her eyes.

Her father sighed, pulled his newspaper from his briefcase and rifled through the pages. "There," he said, indicating the weather forecast. "Today: sunny. Tomorrow: sunny and hot. And look—sunshine for the weekend, too."

Sibyll ignored this, impatiently brushing the proffered newspaper aside, plunging a hand into the umbrella stand by the door and tucking a large umbrella under her father's arm. "Just in case?" she said, slightly sheepishly. Her parents smiled resignedly. "Just in case," Edward agreed.

* * *

Sarah Trelawney finished the lunch dishes, pointed her wand at the cupboard door and watched inattentively as they soared up in a graceful arc and deposited themselves neatly on the shelves. Her eyes darted to the sitting room, where Sibyll was laying out playing cards, attempting to either read the future in them or play solitaire (Sarah was unsure).

"Sibyll," she called, "let's go outside, shall we? It's such a beautiful day. Let's play out in the garden."

Sibyll looked up. "But Mummy, it's going to rain," she said matter-of-factly.

Sarah sighed in exasperation. "Then we'll get wet," she said, thinking privately that it was a pity her daughter couldn't really predict the future, as a little bit of rain would be refreshing on such a hot summer day.

The sun beat down almost oppressively overhead as mother and daughter settled themselves in the shade of the garden's trees. "What shall we do?" Sarah asked brightly, as Sibyll kept checking the cloudless sky for any indication of precipitation. "Do you want to play catch with your ball? Or we could draw on the walk with some chalk, or take your broom out for a ride…"

"Let's play hop-scotch," said Sibyll decisively. Slightly surprised, as it had been a while since they had last played the game, Sarah agreed and busied herself with finding a stone to toss while her daughter drew the hop-scotch course on the walk. Sarah smiled at its wobbly lines and irregular-sized boxes; she could, of course, have drawn a perfect course with magic, but it was so much more satisfying to see the child do it in her own way. The little girl tossed the stone and began to hop the course, wobbling a bit and nearly toppling over as she stooped to pick up the stone, one hand securing her glasses to the bridge of her nose.

"Your turn, Mummy," she said breathlessly, depositing the stone in her mother's outstretched hand. Sarah gently tossed the stone into the first box and began to hop the length of the course. On box 5, she froze, balanced precariously on one foot. "What's wrong, Mummy?" her daughter called. "Nothing," she responded distractedly.

_What was that? It felt just like a…but no, it can't be._

Box 8…she felt it again, then again. Raindrops.

She looked up. Clouds were gathering overhead; ominous, dark clouds. Already the raindrops were falling with greater consistency, washing away their hastily drawn hop-scotch course. Sarah stood on the fading course in utter disbelief. _My God—she was right!_

Sibyll, however, seemed completely unsurprised by this turn of events. She merely gathered up her chalk and stowed it away in its box, safe from the rain.

"Let's go inside," Sarah proposed, seeking shelter under the trees as the rain grew steadier. Her daughter eyed her, deep in thought.

"You said we'd get wet," she said. Sarah nodded, not sure what her daughter was getting at.

"We _are_ getting wet," she agreed, adding, "that's why we should go indoors."

In lieu of a response, Sibyll merely tapped her mother on the arm. "Tag! You're it!" she called over her shoulder as she ran out into the heavy rain in glee. Smiling, murmuring, "So we'll get wet, then," Sarah chased off after her little girl, hair flying, arms flailing, under the steady pounding of the unexpected rain.

* * *

_And so, perhaps little Sibyll Trelawney (whose name I had to double- and triple-check for spelling) has the gift of prophesy after all! I would love to know what you think, readers, because reviews are lovely. Unfortunately, I'm afraid these don't grow on trees; review-writing comes down to you._

_On a side note, I hope everyone's doing well. I don't much like Valentine's Day, but I'll extend some good wishes of love and happiness to all anyway, since you're such great readers._

_On va se 'oir,_

_Delilah_


	37. The Artful Dodger

_Oh, my, Readers, I swear I was not reneging on my promise to update frequently. No, the big news is...I moved! I'm in a new home now, so I had to wait for the cable company to come and hook up my TV, phone lines, and-you guessed it-internet access. So literally the first thing I did upon getting home to find I had a fully functional network connection was to update, becauser you guys have been sooo patient. Then for some reason wasn't letting me edit any of my stories. Bummer. After forwarding countless error messages to support, my patience was rewarded._

_No more rambling, I swear. On with the chapter! We know very little about Blaise Zabini, other than the fact that he is a Slytherin in Harry's year who "turned out to have a famously beautiful witch for a mother (from what Harry could make out, she had been married several times, each of her husbands dying mysteriously and leaving her mounds of gold)." (_Half-Blood Prince_, American paperback edition, pg. 145). I decided to take that juicy little hint and run with it. Enjoy!_

* * *

The Artful Dodger

The bedroom was dim, lit only by a few rays of early-evening sunlight fighting their way through the long, lace curtains before the ruby-red sunset claimed the day for its own at last. The air hung thick with the permeating scent of costly imported perfume, the fragile glass atomizer still perched atop the dressing table, which was littered with cosmetics: hair potions, lipsticks, rouge. Nearby, a warbrobe door stood ajar, some of the luxurious robes inside hanging crooked on their hangers, where their owner had abandoned them in her frantic search for the perfect one. From the shadowy recess of the doorway, a haughty-looking boy slunk noiselessly across the Persian carpet. No one saw him enter.

The boy moved with an almost animal grace, deftly checking over his shoulder as he traversed the room. His eyes rested briefly on the crisp bedcovers, which looked as though they hadn't been slept on in days. This wasn't the purpose of his visit, though; he was on a mission that, over time, had achieved a nearly ritual aspect in his eyes.

He scoured the polished surface of the mahogany dressing table with a practiced eye and, the corner of his mouth twitching into the faintest suggestion of a sardonic grin, he reached out and snatched a flat, velvet-covered box that had been given pride of place on the cluttered table. Peeking inside to verify its contents, the boy snapped it shut almost immediately. Grimly satisfied that his target had been procured so easily, the thief stole across the antique carpet once more and disappeared.

Blaise slipped stealthily out of his mother's boudoir with the jewelry box concealed expertly up his sleeve. _Another_ gift from _another_ lover who would no doubt be all smiles and false cheeriness to Blaise while his mother was watching, then cast clearly irritated looks in his direction when she went off to find her handbag. As though Blaise would get in the way of his planned conquest! That had never stopped any of _them_ before.

It was Wednesday night, a rather unusual night for rendezvous, at least as far as most people were concerned. Isabella Zabini, however, was _not_ 'most people'. And so, regardless of what Blaise may have wanted to the contrary, the halls filled with the overbearing, sickly scent of her perfume as she kissed her son absentmindedly on the forehead, murmuring, "Now you be a good boy, Blaise, and Mother will bring you something special…" as she applied lipstick in a shade most mothers of ten-year-old boys wouldn't consider wearing out in daylight.

She wouldn't be home that night, Blaise knew almost for certain. His mother's suitors were anything but creative. First the theatre, or maybe the opera…then the restaurant, usually French or Italian, with drippy candles and gypsy violins…then the hotel, the champagne, the strawberries, and a lonely dawn in that big house with no one to turn to for company.

When he was small, Blaise would sit up all night in bed, until his eyelids drooped with tiredness, long after one of the house elves had brought him a glass of milk and dimmed the lights, hoping to soothe him to sleep. He would sit there, breathing deeply the night air and listening attentively to the sounds of the crickets and sometimes—_sometimes_—he'd be rewarded with the faint _pop!_ announcing his mother's sudden reappearance at home. But more often than not, the first rays of morning sun preceded Isabella's return. Blaise had since learned not to wait up.

He never knew for sure what drew his mother to this life, what _she _gained in the long run. All he could see her getting out of it all was a little attention and some costly trinkets. For, given for mercenary purposes, they were really little more than trinkets.

They brought her jewels, perfumes, art; once or twice Blaise had even been disgusted upon sorting through the tissue in a long, flat package to reveal scandalous-looking knickers and bras. These tokens filled Blaise with bitterness, a bitterness that could only be diminished by the adrenaline rush of secretly pinching the ill-given treasures from his mother's room.

_She'll never notice,_ he thought. _They never stay, anyway. _

Well, _here_ he was wrong, and he scolded himself inwardly for forgetting those that _had_ stayed. They would sweep in as though they owned the place, with all the swagger of a king, to eventually slip a sparkling diamond on Isabella's finger, a shiny new broomstick into her scowling son's arms and their own ostentatious robes into Blaise's father's old wardrobe. Unsurprisingly, they never lasted long, either. Most mysteriously, Madam Zabini had outlived _several_ wealthy husbands and considerably more wealthy lovers, and still the only constants in her life remained her wealth, her beauty, and her continually dissatisfied little boy.

Slinking through the shadowy house with the dexterity of a cat, Blaise made off for his refuge. His secret place, where none of them could waste his time. They were all a waste of time. Like a goldfish in a bowl, their time here would be so brief, so meaningless, that there was no sense in getting attached.

"And where are you off to?" came a jovial voice from a door to the right. Blaise's frown deepened. He'd been spotted…spotted, but not caught. To be spotted was nothing; he'd dodged worse scrapes than this. That one time his mother had caught him with those pearls from that blustering duke…Blaise _still_ sometimes questioned whether she'd _really_ believed him when he'd claimed they reminded him of her, his mother, when she was away and he was feeling lonely. The way he'd allowed his eyes to well up with false tears—some of his best work, by far. The hallmark of a true master.

He edged into the doorway a fraction of an inch, raising an unimpressed eyebrow at his mother's latest paramour. "To my room," he replied in a flat voice that firmly implied a disinclination to respond further—a time-tested, foolproof method Blaise had devised for dodging unwanted inquiries with skill and flair. The man nodded blandly. _What a prat…clueless!_

And without a backward glance, he continued down the dimly-lit hall and snapped his bedroom door shut behind him. Wedging himself into an imperceptible corner of the linen cupboard, behind a basket of unwashed laundry, he pulled out an old wooden box he'd purloined from the silver cupboard, embossed with his late father's coat of arms. The lid creaked open, revealing a veritable hidden treasure—flawless pearls, glittering jewels, the gleam of gold and silver and platinum. Each and every piece a gift from another suitor, each and every one so artfully stolen by Blaise without so much as a whispered indication of his guilt in the matter.

"Well," his mother would always say after engaging the house elves in a frantic search of her bedroom, the bathroom, the sitting room..."Well, perhaps it's Fate. I suppose we simply weren't meant to be." And like that, it was over and done, forgotten...and before long, she'd be enfolded in an entirely different set of arms and the whole thing would begin again.

He never bothered to look at the items after stealing them, nor did it ever occur to him to try and fence them for some extra pocket money or even just to get them out of his house. Even the thrill of the theft mattered little in the long run. All that mattered was that, in the absence of the gaudy finery, each and every one of his mother's liaisons flickered, burned out and died, leaving just the two of them, alone in the world…the way Blaise liked it best, and—as far as he was concerned—the way it was meant to be.

_She might be theirs for a little while_, he thought to himself, steeled with ten-year-old stubbornness and conviction, _but she's mine forever. And no one can steal her away._

* * *

_Well, what did you think? I do hope you enjoyed it, and I assure you that now that I'm settling in to my new home, updates will be much more regular, or at least more frequent. Cheers!_

_On va se 'oir,_

_Delilah_


	38. Eternally

_Happy almost-Easter, Readers! As I was working on another chapter of our story, it struck me that we have just recently passed the one year anniversary of _Children Will Play_! As such, I'd just like to take a moment to thank all of you who have stuck by this story from the beginning (and even those who are new to the story). Your support and encouragement have enabled me to to take what started off as an out-of-the-blue idea to a level I'd never imagined possible. It means more to me than words can say._

_By the way, someone asked how old Blaise was in the last chapter. I believe it was written in somewhere, but if I forgot, I apologize. He was ten. _

_On that note, a special shout-out to all of my reviewers and Favorites from last chapter: **LegendMyth**, **A Random Person**, **prizbokc**, **hpfan224**, **SillySmoothie**, **Little Miss Lupin**, **Louey06**, **nessie6**, **samira parsa**, **SheWhoDancesWithPeacocks**, **DaisyMaeEvans**, **xandromedax**, **dancergirl7** and **The Little House Scribe**. Love you all!_

_This chapter takes place far in the past, further than any other as of yet. As such, please excuse any anachronisms, as I tried my hardest to be historically accurate but am not an expert. Enjoy!_

* * *

Eternally

_Paris—AD 1337_

Mme. Flamel was busy. A woman's work was never done, she reflected as she kneaded dough laboriously in the kitchen. From his favorite spot on the hearth, her ten-year-old son Nicolas turned the spit idly.

"Mother?" asked Nicolas curiously as he watched his mother at work. Madame raised an eyebrow.

"Yes?"

"Would you not like to live forever?"

Her hands paused in their work. This question was so out of the ordinary, and at the same time, so typically Nicolas. Idle hands may be the devil's playthings, but Nicolas could more than make up for idle hands with his thoroughly overactive mind.

Nicolas was the youngest of the Flamels' twelve children, eight of whom had survived childhood. He was his mother's favorite, never to be found far from her side. His father was a practical man, a simple shopkeeper who worked hard, loved his family and feared God. But his mother knew the power of dreams and of fantasies. Nicolas grew up on her tales of knights errant and their lady loves, of magic and miracles, relayed to him from memory as she deftly plucked a game bird or embroidered a coif. But this was not to be forever. Nicolas was growing, and would someday soon leave her, just as all the others had done. Such was life.

So, how to respond to such a query?

"Forever?" Madame asked, giving herself thinking time. "I suppose so, love. I never presumed so far." He nodded, acknowledging the strangeness of the remark as she returned to her work. Her mind, however, was elsewhere.

What _would_ it be like to live forever? To survive the plague, famine, drought, war, even the ever-present threat of witch-takers…as though the very hand of God sheltered your every endeavor? To never know doubt or fear of mortality?

"I imagine it would be marvelous," Mme. Flamel amended warmly, gathering her son to herself and softly kissing the top of his head. Nicolas, peeping up from where his face was buried in her richly embroidered kirtle, looked unsure.

"Could it be done, do you suppose?" he asked in awe. Madame looked thoughtful. Surely, no man would be so bold as to presume that this life might be extended long enough as to indefinitely forestall the next life. Still, there were always stories…stories of princes who made bargains with supernatural forces in order to live forever, stories of ageless princesses sleeping for centuries within the confines of magnificent castles, and—closer perhaps to reality—stories of natural philosophers who sought above all things to upend the very fabric of nature, convert dross to gold and death to life. Their powers were legend, even among wizards.

Death was the last master none had yet conquered, an adversary who humbled king and peasant alike. A black knight who had so deftly ripped four of the Flamels' children from their mother's arms even as they reached their little hands up to her in supplication. Sir Death, the crusader, the great equalizer, who brought them all—young and old; valiant knights, fair ladies, pious clerics and even innocent babes—before the inescapable Final Judgment. But, then again, if any knight or sorcerer or philosopher were worthy of this daunting challenge, her Nicholas was.

"If anyone could live forever," she concluded aloud, "I imagine you could, Nicolas."

She pictured her son, traversing mountain and valley and river all throughout Europe, to the domed palaces of the sultan of Egypt, to the mysteries of the Orient. He would talk policy with His Majesty King Philippe and the erudite Queen Jeanne would eagerly offer him her treasured manuscripts to peruse. He would even see the wonders of the future—the glorious triumph of the French over all other kingdoms, the near-certain defeat of the English in this latest petty conflict they'd been embroiled in. As the maps of Europe are drawn and re-drawn, as dynasties crumble and fall to be summarily supplanted, Nicolas would see it all. Nicolas might even see the recapture of the Holy Land, or the discovery of a miraculous remedy for pestilence, or perhaps even wonders yet unimagined! What other mysteries could the future hold back from one who could regard every miraculous sunset as yet another grain of sand on the endless expanse of the seashore?

She studied Nicolas' face as carefully as she would her embroidery, but he remained unmoved. "I wouldn't want to do it without you, Mother. I would be empty inside."

She smiled sadly. So _here_ was the crux of his musings—he didn't want to be without her. But he would have to do just that, and soon. Nicolas' father had arranged an apprenticeship with an alchemist of noted fame and rumored power. It was an excellent opportunity for the young man, a chance many would die for.

As an alchemist, Nicolas would be educated like a young prince. He would push the boundaries of magic and natural philosophy beyond anything that had previously been thought possible. Kings and princes from all over Europe and indeed the known world would correspond with Nicolas, seeking his sage advice. His fame would eclipse even that of the great Merlin of old. His wisdom, clothed in the authority of natural philosophy, would protect him from superstitious peasants, who both hated and feared magic, pursuing its destruction with increasingly rabid fervor. There were no other options worthy of her favorite son, in Madame Flamel's opinion.

_What else is there for him?_ she asked herself. _A future in his father's shop? Or would he become a blacksmith, like his brother Louis? Will he take off to the countryside and scrape a living off the soil like a peasant, with no future besides the annual reaping of grains and slaughtering of old beasts? Risk some peasant discovering his true identity? He deserves more! He's been called to a higher purpose!_

Tomorrow, then, would be the day—when her boy, her precious boy, would go off to his new life, while she remained behind to miss him. She had already laid his doublet and hose in a chest for him, alongside a few coins' savings, the dagger his father had presented him with years ago (when he was 'old enough', he'd said), and his few personal treasures. There was no turning back, not now that his fate had already been settled.

Nicolas had been most reluctant when his father had broken the news. "But I do not _want_ to!" he protested softly, "I wish to stay! Truly, Father, I pray you!"

"Enough of this," Flamel had replied. "We can do no better for you than this new master, Nicolas. In this world, each man is called to a place ordained to him by our Maker. _This_ is to be your place, my son, and it pleases me to know that you will work hard and be a credit to your family in your new station. I bid you farewell," he had concluded, somewhat formally.

Not daring to openly defy his father, Nicolas had nodded his assent and followed his new master out of the little house. He looked as though he were fighting the urge to look back. Madame Flamel turned to her husband, seeking reassurance. He nodded to her as he turned to head back to his work.

"I don't fear for him," his father said aloud, to no one in particular. "Nicolas' star is on the rise, and who knows how far he might go?"

"Please God he is safe," his mother responded. "Safe, and merry in his heart, and I shall be most content."

Flamel returned to his accounts without preamble. Madame Flamel, however, remained silhouetted in the doorway, watching the retreating back of her youngest son with a pang. _Truly, there is no magic greater than love,_ she thought, wondering if the love she bore for this, her last baby, would ever be rewarded with just one more day by his side. She felt a jolt as he looked back over his shoulder one last time, their eyes meeting in the silent understanding that wherever his path might take him, he would forever remain her little boy; that his love for her, his mother, queen of his heart, would endure eternally.

* * *

_What did you think, Readers? I hope the much-faster-than-last-time update pleased everyone. In an ongoing effort to do penance for my long absence, here's a sneak peek at the next chapter, tentatively entitled "Girl's Best Friend":_

Aunt Florence had a ruffled apron tied around her waist as she settled a tureen of porridge on the table. Uncle Edward shook out his napkin deftly and settled it in his lap; Grandmother was barely visible behind the morning paper. An advertisement on the back page announced a two-for-one sale on robes, complete with a coupon valid through the following Thursday.

"Good morning, Minerva," Aunt Florence said jovially. "What have you planned out for today?"

"Oh, nothing…Dinah had kittens and I thought I might go and see them," Minerva replied, sinking into her usual chair and reaching for a juice glass.

"Kittens, you say?" Grandmother asked over her newspaper as Uncle Edward poured the tea.

"Mr. Mackenzie says I can have one if I like, and if you don't mind," she replied carefully. The right words, and victory would be within her grasp...

Grandmother nodded. "We'll take a walk over after breakfast," she said crisply.

_Hope that tides you over. In addition, I have a big announcement to make in my next AN. No, it's not dire news about the fate of the story; it's actually a bit of personal news. But for those of you who are interested, I'm excited to share it with someone!_

_'Til then, my friends, on va se 'oir,_

_Delilah_


	39. Girl's Best Friend

_Hi, everyone! It's great to be updating again, in a reasonable time frame. I know many of you are curious about the mysterious news I have for you, but let's get to the story first, because I'm sure even more of you are curious about the childhood adventures of one Minerva McGonagall._

_But before we begin, a special thank you to last chapter's reviewers: **MidsummerNightGirl**, **A Random Person**, **reader**, **SheWhoDancesWithPeacocks**, **junebugbug96**, **TheOnlyMarauderette**, **MeggySheep**, **prizbokc**, **MuggleCreator**, **chelseyb1010** (chapter 21), **Dimcairien**, **AchillesMonkey**, **dancergirl7** and **Louey06**. Another thank-you to the readers who added this story to their Favorites or their Alerts._

_A special congratulations to **SheWhoDancesWithPeacocks**, who managed to guess my news. Very astute!_

_And now, on to the chapter! I hope you like it._

* * *

Girl's Best Friend

_Deep breath. The worst they can say is 'No.'_

As she made her way leisurely down the steps, seven-year-old Minerva McGonagall muttered to herself, marshalling all her arguments why she should finally be given a pet of her own. Her grandmother, after all, had a veritable assortment of dogs, one of whom had recently employed the tail of Minerva's broomstick as a chew toy. Aunt Florence had a pair of canaries that sang shrilly before the sun was fully up every morning, waking every man, woman and child for miles around, it seemed. Even Uncle Edward had a white rat that perched on his shoulder. Minerva drew her eyebrows together in dislike at the very thought of Squeakers. She was less than fond of the white rat.

_I'm seven years old now, and that's a good age to start taking care of a pet,_ she recited in her head. _I'm responsible, and I'd take good care of it, and feed it every day, and read it bedtime stories every night so it gets smart. Besides, it would be lovely to have someone to play with._

Satisfied with her list of reasons, Minerva continued down the stairs in search of her guardians. As she walked, she rearranged her features into the no-nonsense expression Grandmother often sported. _There! Now they'll know that I mean business._

_Mother and Father would've said yes right away, _Minerva thought involuntarily, an almost ironic smile forming at the corners of her mouth. It felt odd, really, to be wishing that they were around more. First of all, it was a pointless wish, as they were never to be found in one place for too long. Secondly, they were…_different_. Frivolous, Aunt Florence would always say.

Minerva had been living with her aunt, uncle and grandmother since she was three. Though Grandmother insisted that people never had genuine memories of things that happened in their earliest years, Minerva was confident in the knowledge that _she_ could remember every detail of the day her parents had dropped her off at her mother's sister's house, valise in hand.

It had been Grandmother's idea. She had absolutely no confidence in her 'flighty' daughter's childrearing skills and thought it best for her little granddaughter to be brought up in a stable, _traditional_ home environment. Her proposal—to entrust little Minerva to her younger-but-considerably-more-practical-and-mature daughter Florence, while Charlotte and her husband danced across Europe without a care in the world—was "after all, for the best."

Charlotte McGonagall had taken great offense at first. Fuming, she'd accused her mother of having no respect for her, of being dowdy and old-fashioned, and of never having liked her son-in-law from the moment Charlotte had brought him home. Her mother counterattacked with pointed barbs about the McGonagalls' unconventional lifestyle ("clearly unsuitable for a child!"), their eclectic circle of friends ("artists and musicians and Merlin-_knows-_who else!") and her daughter's unseemly attire ("hats that cover your eyebrows and flimsy Muggle dresses that don't cover much else! And what possessed you to cut off all your lovely hair?") But in the end, Charlotte capitulated. Minerva remembered holding her hand anxiously as she stood on the doorstep of her new home.

Grandmother had swung open the door on the first knock, swept Minerva in with a commanding arm around her shoulders all the while clucking at Charlotte over the 'boyish' silhoutte that was accentuated by the Muggle attire she so incomprehensibly preferred. The McGonagalls had stayed for tea, and to see their daughter settled into her new room. Charlotte seemed uneasy during tea, toying unnecessarily with the long strand of pearls that was wound twice around her neck and came to rest in her lap. She became even more unnerved when her mother pointedly ignored her repeated insistences that all refer to her as _Lottie_, rather than Charlotte. Her husband Geoffrey, meanwhile, idly examined his reflection in the back of a teaspoon, smoothing his already slick hair back like a Muggle film star and tapping a foot to a jazzy tune he whistled under his breath. "Now, you be good, darling," Lottie had told Minerva as she enfolded her in a tight hug, "and don't let the old lady bring you down." And just like that, with a final kiss to her daughter's cheek, she was gone, leaving Minerva wiping her mother's garish red lipstick from her face with her lace-trimmed hankie.

They'd floated in and out of Aunt Florence's old, ivy-encrusted house several times in the years since then, or otherwise sent picture postcards from their many ports of call, or little gifts obtained when Father's 'speculations' at Gringotts yielded a good profit. In the meantime, the only indication Minerva gave that she even acknowledged her parents was the little, moving black-and-white photo she kept on her bedside cabinet. There she sat, a monochrome, photographic toddler in between her mother (whose scandalous short dresses, bobbed hair and affinity for cigarette smoking in public were a constant source of annoyance to _her_ mother) and father (who, after falling deeply in love with Muggle cinema styled himself after Valentino and lived the life of a jet-setter). Minerva didn't see much of herself in either of them. She liked books, and sports, and was as suited to country life on her family's little estate as her parents had been eager to cast it off, in favor of glittering decadent cities and the polish of the Riviera.

Life was good, for the most part. She had as many books as she could ever want, stacked on the shelves that covered the walls of the slightly cramped, cozy study. She had a broomstick that she could ride unrestricted over the grounds. But the one thing Minerva really wanted was a friend.

Grandmother wasn't much of a companion. She was strict and old-fashioned, and firmly adhered to the belief that an hour of Quidditch a day was more than enough for a young girl, which irked Minerva to no end. And she never really understood Minerva's independence. Mother and Father had always encouraged Minerva to be independent, to stand up for herself-one of the few lessons they gave her, in Minerva's opinion, that could perhaps come in handy someday. But Grandmother was firm in her belief that children should be seen and not heard, and that ladies should adhere to a very specific set of values. "Demure" was her favorite adjective, and consequently not one she used in reference to her granddaughter too often. Aunt Florence and Uncle Edward were nice enough, but much too wrapped up in their own affairs to constantly be entertaining a young girl. Minerva's first companions had been the characters she'd met in the books she was given complete access to. There were children she played with on occasion, but they didn't live near enough to keep her company all the time. A better companion would be the kitten.

The gentleman on the neighboring estate kept cats to frighten away vermin, and not long ago one of his cats had had a litter of kittens. They were the sweetest little balls of fluff, nestling close to their mother or otherwise jumping over each other in wild abandon. Minerva wished she could keep them all but knew already which one she wanted. The little gray kitten with the lively, intelligent eyes ringed with markings that Minerva fancied to be the cat's own version of the spectacles she herself had recently begun to wear. It was as though she had met her double, in cat form.

Minerva knew she had to ask quickly. Surely the precocious little kitten would catch _someone's_ eye if she didn't act soon. She smoothed her skirt and proceeded into the dining room for breakfast.

Aunt Florence had a ruffly apron tied around her waist as she settled a tureen of porridge on the table. Uncle Edward shook out his napkin and settled it in his lap; Grandmother was barely visible behind the morning paper. An advertisement on the back page announced a two-for-one sale on robes through the following Thursday. Ensconced behind the wall of newsprint, the rest of the family could hear her muttering darkly about the new Minister for Magic's admitted preference for the new jazz music that was filtering across the Atlantic. "Isn't the 'Wizarding Suite' enough excitement for them? Who needs this newfangled nonsense?"

"Good morning, Minnie," Aunt Florence said jovially over Grandmother's dark premonitions for the Minister's musical tastes. "What have you planned out for today?"

"Oh, nothing…Mittens had kittens and I thought I might go and see them," Minerva replied, sinking into her usual chair and reaching for a juice glass.

"Kittens, you say?" Grandmother asked over her newspaper as Uncle Edward poured the tea.

"Mr. Mackenzie says I can have one if I like, and if you don't mind," she replied.

Grandmother nodded. "We'll take a walk over after breakfast," she said crisply. Minerva smiled as she buttered some toast, and could have sworn she saw Grandmother give her a small, secret smile in return.

After breakfast, Minerva tried hard to conceal her excitement as Grandmother fastened her tweed cloak over her high-necked dress and insisted that Minerva put on a hat. She scarcely noticed the morning chill as they walked along the deserted lane to Mr. Mackenzie's gate and absorbed little of the talk Grandmother directed her way. It seemed like the conversation between Grandmother and Mr. Mackenzie took a century, rather than fifteen minutes or so, before they finally made their way around back.

Grandmother stood in the doorway, smiling as Minerva reached down into the basket, lined with an old tartan blanket and tufts of fluffy cat fur. She picked up the gray kitten and cradled it gently against her heavy sweater.

"They look natural together," commented Mr. Mackenzie with a hearty laugh.

Grandmother's eyes lingered on the sparkle in her granddaughter's eyes as she tickled the kitten's pure white belly, thinking back to her own insufferable, lovably infuriating daughter as a child. "Yes," she conceded, "they do." She paused, then added thoughtfully as she watched her granddaughter:

"Who'd have thought Minerva would find a kitten with spectacle marks around its eyes?"

* * *

_Well, what did you think? I hope everyone enjoyed the chapter and it was worth waiting for. As such, I'd appreciate it if you could all let me know your thoughts on it. I envisioned grown-up Professor McGonagall inheriting her strictness from the fact that she grew up surrounded by adults (notably her formidable grandmother), but her self-reliance and 'fire' from her unconventional parents. She really is a piece of work!_

_Please **review**, as a birthday gift to me (my birthday is this week!)_

_And now, the news: I am getting married! My now-fiance surprised me with a lovely proposal, and we're very excited. Since you readers have been privy to many of my comings and goings and life events during the past year, I was excited to share this new development._

_On va se 'oir,_

_Delilah_


	40. The Greatest Gift

_Hello, readers! I hope you're all well! _

_Thanks for your responses to last chapter. My awesome reviewers include: **Authoress Angst 01, Annnnnnnnnnnna, Laura, A Random Person, Dee, Louey06, TheOnlyMarauderette, dancergirl7, SheWhoDancesWithPeacocks, prizbokc, junebugbug96, MeggieSheep, AchillesMonkey, mysterymuffin, The Roaming Shadow**, and **MidsummerNightGirl**._

_Just noticed that I've passed the 400 review mark just as I'm posting chapter 40 That's interesting... maybe l should play the number 4...  
_

_Have you read "The Gift of the Magi", the classic short story by O. Henry? It's one of those stories that's always on my mind at Christmastime, and I think you'll be able to tell how it inspired this chapter. Enjoy!_

* * *

The Greatest Gift

One Galleon and thirteen Knuts. That was all. He counted it once, he counted it twice, but neither time did any more than the one Galleon and thirteen Knuts materialize. Tomorrow was her birthday, and that was all he had with which to buy her a present.

Ernie Macmillan sighed, gathered up his meager savings and stowed it safely in his pocket. There was no need to risk losing what he had and ending up with nothing at all. At nine years old, he was aware of the fact that he was growing up, that he was _perfectly capable_ of getting his mother something lovely for her birthday, just as his father would do. 'Something lovely' did _not_ include necklaces crafted from macaroni. No, Ernie was simply determined not only to buy his mother the perfect gift, but to buy it on his own.

"Ernie?" He sat up quickly, almost guiltily, from where he'd been sprawled out on the bed, counting his small (_very_ small) fortune.

"Yes, Mum?" he called back, trying for all the world not to sound as though he were hiding something.

"D'you want to come into town with me this afternoon, love?"

He considered it for a minute. He did, after all, have yet to buy his gift…but with _what_? And how on Earth would he manage to give his mother the slip long enough to actually buy her something? Sighing in resignation for the second time, he did up his trainers and took one last look under his bed in vain hopes of locating a stray Sickle.

An hour later, Ernie's initial enthusiasm was slowly but surely dissipating into a profound desperation. His mother had dragged him to perhaps five or six different stores, sitting him outside in the sun to contentedly look over his prized Chocolate Frog cards as she ran inside to do her shopping. In reality, Ernie was staring as blankly at the cards as if they were made of glass and he could see right through them. His real focus was on the one Galleon and thirteen Knuts currently hidden away in his pocket.

The sudden sound of a crash tore Ernie's eyes away from his incredibly rare Agrippa card (which he had been toying with as though it were a worthless scrap of parchment, when in fact he had needed to trade a round dozen of his favorite cards just for _this_, the jewel of his collection) to a nearby storefront. The source of the crash was easily explained; a young wizard—some sort of trainee, no doubt—had attempted to levitate a huge stack of crates in through the front door and ended up crashing into an old witch who was laden with heavy parcels, resulting in an outstanding mess and the aforementioned crash.

It was only once the young man had, apologizing profusely, helped the old woman up and gathered up her packages, that Ernie could see the posters and advertisements in the shop's windows. It was a secondhand store of sorts. Ernie glanced quickly over his shoulder; his mother was completely engrossed in a rack of "Instantly Slimming, Wrinkle-Proof Fashion Robes—Lose 2 Dress Sizes Effortlessly! It's Magic!" Making up his mind on the spot, he pocketed his Chocolate Frog cards and crossed the lane to the secondhand shop.

Ernie had never been in here before. The inside was dim and smelled faintly of mothballs, but it wasn't an unpleasant smell, he reflected. The displays were arranged neatly around the shop by category; clothing to the left of the doorway, housewares to the right. Behind the counter was an assortment of gift items: china, jewelry, handmade quilts and tablecloths. It was here that Ernie paused. He sidled up to the counter and looked into the glass display. One item jumped out at him almost at once.

It was a bracelet, an old-fashioned charm bracelet. The silver of the bracelet and charms was a bit tarnished, and the charms were fashioned to look like little elephants, jingling as though on constant parade at the circus. It looked as though it had been sitting in the glass case for a long time. It was, in Ernie's eyes, absolutely perfect.

"How much?" he whispered to the clerk, looking every now and then over his shoulder to see if his mother had reemerged into the street. No sign of her.

The old man behind the counter squinted at the yellowing price tag. He murmured an amount, and Ernie's face fell.

"I could do a little better for you, sonny," he added, seeing the boy's crushed look. He wrote a number on a slip of paper and slid it across the glass countertop. Ernie shook his head, pocketed the paper absentmindedly, then turned and headed back into the sunny street just as his mother emerged with her new robes hanging in their wrappings over her arm.

Their next stop was the grocer. Meredith Macmillan thrust some coins into her son's hand and pointed him in the direction of the ice cream parlor, urging him to treat himself, for being so patient. Shrugging his shoulders half-heartedly, he settled himself under an umbrella in front of the ice cream parlor, not far from a veritable crowd surrounding a makeshift booth.

Ernie glanced around for a waiter, seeing only a number of people, children and adults, drifting towards the booth. "What's going on?" he asked a curly-haired girl.

"Chocolate Frog trading," she said shortly, holding up a box full of cards that Ernie hadn't noticed before. Despite his current predicament, he couldn't help being intrigued. He followed her over to the stand, where collectors were trading cards, buying and selling. Out of the corner of his eye, Ernie saw the striped awning of the secondhand shop down the street. He reached into his pocket and felt the hard edges of his prized collection and smiled tersely to himself.

* * *

"Happy birthday, Mum!" he called out as he swept into the kitchen the following morning and settled badly-wrapped box across the table. So _this_ was what he'd been up to last night, why he'd been so quiet and secretive over dinner and why he'd went straight up to his room without any dessert. What could it be?

The Macmillans shared a single, inquiring look, then both gazed at their son, wondering what he had bought and how on earth he'd paid for it. Meredith tore off the wrapping paper with some difficulty, as it was swathed in Spellotape and a fair amount of tightly-knotted string. She extracted a faded, imitation-velvet box and raised her eyebrows. Her husband leaned in.

"Where'd you get that, Ernie?" he asked with a grin. Ernie shook his head. "Open it," he breathed eagerly.

She pried open the box. There lay the silver bracelet, polished painstakingly by Ernie for over forty-five minutes the previous night as he hid behind his bedwith the silver polish and an old rag. She drew in a deep breath.

"Ernie…how-?"

"I knew you loved elephants, Mum," he said, his eyes sparkling in delight. Behind his mother's back, his father gave him the thumbs-up.

"But _where_ did you get the money?" she persisted. Ernie was positively shining in his earnestness.

"My Agrippa card," he replied carelessly. "I sold it, and bought this instead."

Her smile faded as instantly as it had appeared. "Oh, _Ernie_, you didn't—"

Ernie's face fell. "What's the matter? Don't you like it?" he asked dejectedly. After all that, she didn't like it.

Meredith put a finger under her son's chin and lifted it, ready and willing to dry his tears if it came to that. Ernie wasn't crying, though; he simply looked as though he'd given up. "Why?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I just wanted you to have a good birthday," he said, not understanding why she wasn't pleased. She wrapped her arms around him, smiling warmly.

"I love it," she said. "I love _you_. Just next time, you don't have to sell your most prized possession. A card would be lovely."

Smiling into her shoulder, Ernie nodded. "I don't care," he whispered in her ear. "I'd do it all over again."

Glowing inside at his reply, Meredith thought to herself that she'd better return the special protective frame she'd bought for his favorite card before he found out.

The greatest gift of all is to love, and be loved in return.

* * *

_Funny, l actually enjoy the smell of mothballs. Looks like Ernie and l have that in common._

_I hope you enjoyed this installment and am pleased to share that next chapter will most likely feature Luna Lovegood. l apologize in advance if there's a little bit of a wait for her because its the end of the school year and I'm inundated with paperwork._

_In the meantime please review! You know you love it-secretly..._

_On va se 'oir,_

_Delilah_


	41. A Rose By Any Other Name

_Hello, everyone! Happy summer! It feels great to be on vacation at last! Luna's still a work-in-progress, but I thought I'd treat you to another visit with the Weasleys to tide you over. Hope you like it!_

_By the way, here's last chapter's Reviewers' Hall of Fame: **ATWFFfan, XXXMariellaXXX, TruthHurtsLikeHell, excessivelyperky, anotherbuskitten, thebritishone, prizbokc, reader, Louey06, junebugbug96, A Random Person, Dimcairien, Dee, Authoress Angst 01, Jezabel Raewin, xandromedax, dancergirl7, HarryPercyArtemisWarriorsFan, BellaRei713, Anymouse, MidsummerNightGirl, The Roaming Shadow **and **SheWhoDancesWithPeacocks.** Thank you all for your indescribably kind and helpful comments!_

* * *

A Rose By Any Other Name

Six brothers fidgeted nervously, taking up nearly all the available space on the sofas as they waited for their parents to say something. They had called this family meeting most unexpectedly, and not one of the boys could be quite sure of its purpose.

"Of course I know what it's for," Bill had bluffed, as several of his younger brothers regarded him with the awe reserved for a mighty prophet speaking of arcane mysteries. "Since _when_?" muttered Charlie at his side; Bill swiftly kicked him under the cover of shaking some dirt from his trousers.

"Well, what is it?" squeaked Percy. He absolutely hated being out of the loop on anything and indeed made it his goal in life to know absolutely everything. Bill smiled to himself at the power he held over his little brothers. Little kids would believe anything!

"It's about you, Perce," he began seriously, nudging Charlie in the ribs to indicate that he, too, should look appropriately grave. Charlie took the hint and instantly rearranged his features accordingly, trying with all his might to stifle a laugh.

"You see," Bill continued, concocting what seemed to him a valid explanation in his head mere seconds before trying it out on his gullible little brother, "when the new baby comes, Mum and Dad will have to put him somewhere. They've been trying to sort out where he's gonna go for weeks, and finally they realized that this was the only solution."

Percy's eyes widened in trepidation. "They're sending me away?" he asked in his squeaky, five-year-old voice. Bill shook his head.

"Nah, they're moving you. The baby's getting your room."

"But where do I sleep?" Percy asked. He had a sudden vision of himself curled in a ball on the sofa. Well, that wouldn't e too bad…it was warm, the sofa was soft (if also a little lumpy), and perhaps he could line up his picture books along the mantle where Mum kept all those old photographs…

The sound of Bill's voice jerked Percy out of his reverie. "Naw, she's moving you in with the twins and giving your room to the new baby."

"What? No!" screeched Percy, in obvious distress. The three brothers' eyes flicked automatically to the two-year-old twins, Fred ad George, who were gabbling in some made-up language with their fingers up each other's nose.

"Why can't I share with one of you?" he asked pleadingly, turning back to face Bill with a look of undisguised disgust.

"Our rooms are too small," replied Bill. Both older brothers' faced were painted with identical looks of fake sympathy.

"Fine, why can't I share with Ron, then?"

"You sure you'd _want_ to?" asked Charlie. The three brothers turned to face Ron, the baby of the family, though not for much longer. He was sitting contentedly on the floor, bouncing up and down on his bottom as he waved his arms around, chanting his own name in obvious delight.

"Ron, Ron, Ron, Ron, Ron, Ron, Ron, Ron!"

"Okay, not Ron," said Percy, "but the twins are bad, too! They're always doing naughty stuff and getting in trouble!"

At that moment, Arthur and Molly Weasley shuffled into the room and gradually, their six sons fell silent, with the exception of little Ron, who was still bouncing, still flapping, and still resolutely chanting his name.

"Ron, Ron, Ron, Ron, Ron, Ron, Ron, Ron!"

Molly picked him up, tried (with great difficulty) to settle him on her lap, gave it up as a bad job and settled for patting him lovingly on the head. Molly was expecting her seventh child, and the huge belly that made it so difficult to fit one-year-old Ron on her lap led everyone to believe that the newest addition to the Weasley brood would arrive soon.

"Well, as you boys can tell, the baby will be here soon," Arthur began, straightening his crooked glasses as he spoke.

"No baby!" interrupted one of the twins. "How 'bout a nice birdie instead?"

"Tweet, tweet!" chimed in the other twin, and they immediately started flapping their arms. Ron, who had abandoned his own flapping only a minute ago, joined in with undisguised glee.

Bill and Charlie shared a pained look. If this was a regular occurrence with six kids in the house, what could they expect when the seventh arrived? And who said Mum and Dad would stop at seven? Perhaps they wanted more kids? Bill had a sudden vision of himself, much older. He was walking down a corridor at Hogwarts (which he'd caught glimpses of in old photographs of his parents'). As he stopped to wave at a classmate, he noticed that _every_ other student in the corridor had the same vivid red hair and freckles. "Hi, big brother!" one of them called out, sounding eerily like the twins. Bill shivered involuntarily and jerked his attention back to the sound of his mother's voice.

"We have to pick a name before the baby is born," she continued, "and we wanted you boys to help us choose."

The boys exchanged looks, deep in thought. Finally, Charlie spoke up.

"How about Chinese Fireball?" he suggested with not a hint of humor or irony. Arthur chuckled.

"That's a name for a dragon, son, not a baby."

"I think it's a cool name!" chimed in Bill. "The baby will have red hair like us, so it sounds good!"

Arthur sighed and looked to his wife for support. Molly turned her gaze to her other sons. "Any other suggestions?" she asked.

"Ron, Ron, Ron, Ron, Ron!" giggled Ron, clapping his hands at the sound of his own name. "He means Ron _Junior_," supplied Fred (or was it George?). "We know what Ron wants," added the other twin, patting Ron on the head in an indulgent, paternal manner.

Molly struggled to maintain a straight face. "All right then, we have 'Chinese Fireball' and 'Ron Junior'—"

"Or Bob!" interrupted George. "We like that too!"

"Very well, or 'Bob,'…"

"Or 'You-Know-Who-I'm-Talking-About'," added Fred. Molly suddenly looked stern.

"Fred Weasley, that is _not_ something to joke about! Now, are there any more _serious_ suggestions?"

Percy, who hadn't said a word this whole time, raised a hand timidly. "How about Leopold?" he asked tentatively.

"Leopold? That name's rubbish!" cried Bill in distaste. Charlie nodded vigorously; Percy shrugged. "I think it sounds like a king," he explained.

"Okay," interjected Arthur, hoping to head his sons off before a row broke out. "So we've got 'Chinese Fireball,' 'Ron Junior,' 'Bob,' and 'Leopold.'" He shot the twins a warning look before they suggested 'You-Know-Who' again. "Perhaps we'll make a final decision later." The boys nodded, taking this as the end of the family meeting and a signal that they could go play.

"Wait!" gasped Charlie suddenly as everyone rose to go their separate ways. Everyone froze.

"What if it's a _girl_?" asked Charlie. For a moment, all six Weasley brothers eyed each other in silent contemplation of this startling new possibility.

"Aw, come on, _that'll_ never happen!" laughed Bill, and all his brothers joined in the laughter. After all, there hadn't been a girl in the Weasley clan in generations. Still laughing, the brothers headed towards the sunny garden, but not before Bill heard a voice behind him.

"Her name will be Ginevra," said Molly, resting her hands on the great curve of her stomach. "I've been saving her name for years, if I had a girl, and something tells me I'll finally get to use it."

Seeing his mother so content, Bill thought to himself that maybe—just maybe—having a little sister to look after and protect, who'd look up to him, whose hero he could be…might not be too bad after all. He smiled as he made his way outdoors, just in time to overhear Percy's desperate plea:

"Do I really have to share my room with the twins?"

* * *

_Well, I hope this little dose of lightheartedness counteracts all the tears I seem to be causing. Don't worry, I hope to update soo with Luna. Let me know what you think and all the best to all of you as the summer holidays commece!_

_On va se 'oir,_

_Delilah_


	42. I'll Be Seeing You

_Well, I can tell there's been a lot of anticipation in the wait for Luna, who-believe it or not-was one of my original 12 characters, the 12 characters I had ideas for right from the start! Funny enough, of the twelve characters I'd planned for from the beginning, nine were featured within the first twelve chapters. Of the remaining three, two got their chapters in the 13-20 batch and Luna here is the last of my 'original' set to get pulished...way, _way_ later in chapter forty-two! I'd like to thank all the people who sumitted ideas of their own, because many of the scenes in the additional thirty completed chapters (not to mention the eleven-or-so works in progress) were inspired by your suggestions._

_So why, then, did Luna take so long? After all, the eleventh of my original twelve to be published was Tonks, way back in chapter 17! Well, I started out working this chapter from a different angle, hit a dead end and decided to pursue it from a completely different direction. As a result, I had to scrap what I had and start from scratch. I hope it lives up to all the work I put into it._

_But before we begin, let's keep tradition alive with Delilah's Reviewers Hall of Fame: The Chapter 41 Edition! Special thaks to: **Jezabel Raewin, Louey06, Dimcairien, Dee, TheOnlyMarauderette, prizbokc, MidsummerNightGirl, SheWhoDancesWithPeacocks **and** A Random Person**_

_One final note: I apologize for any 'missing letter' misspellings. Some of the keys on my keyboard aren't working properly, so I have to go in and add the missing letters another way and it's easy to miss one every now and then. It's a pain, but I have a wedding to save for, so a new computer's kind of not an option at the moment. Sigh. _

* * *

I'll Be Seeing You

The Lovegood house loomed ahead, the late-afternoon sun sinking behind its stone walls. To many observers, it would prove a strange, if not rather forbidding sight, but for the approaching girl, it was water in the midst of dry ploughland.

Small and spare, even for seven years old, the girl had long blonde hair, which had apparently been plaited with care earlier that morning, only to unravel somewhat and stick out at various odd angles as the day wore on. She stomped roughly up the hill, trampling fluffy white dandelions in her haste, her feet flying over the dry grass as though some great terror pursued her.

The little girl wrenched open the front door and looked wildly around for signs of life. Noting briefly that the room was quite empty, she thundered up the stairs to the sitting room.

Mrs. Lovegood was observing a bizarre-looking plant growing in a window box with almost alarming intensity. She did not look up when her daughter entered the room, keeping her eyes fixed on the plant (which seemed to have sprouted strange, grayish orbs like clusters of semi-transparent pearls overnight) as she jotted down notes on a long scroll of parchment with a battered quill.

"Mum?" asked the girl. Usually unfailingly calm and refreshingly confident, it was the uncharacteristic note of doubt in her daughter's voice that drew Mrs. Lovegood's eyes from her work.

"Luna, my love, what's wrong?" she asked in a clear, musical voice. Carefully setting down her notes o a cluttered side-table, she made her way across the room to embrace her daughter, breathing in her comforting aroma of honeysuckle, sunshine and heavy, midsummer air.

"Davey's going away," Luna replied in a flat voice most unlike her own. She threw herself gracelessly into a nearby armchair, her fingers unconsciously tugging at a loose thread trailing from the hem of her pinafore dress. Her mother looked perplexed.

"On holiday, you mean?" she suggested. "Oh, dear, that's nothing to be upset about! Only last night your father was saying he thought he might take us on holiday in a couple of weeks; maybe we'll even be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the—"

"Not on holiday," Luna interrupted before she could get too interested in her family's next thrilling expedition. "He's going away for good and never coming back."

Mrs. Lovegood stopped and took a cleansing breath. "I see. And how does this make you feel, Luna? Always be aware of your feelings."

Looking thoughtful, Luna cocked her head to the side before answering purposefully. "It makes me feel sad."

Her mother nodded in interest. "Perfectly acceptable reaction, darling," she proclaimed. "But may I ask why?"

Luna shrugged. "I'll miss him," she began with difficulty. "I'll miss playing together. I'll miss telling secrets and stories and sharing our snacks. And I'll miss seeing him every day."

Mrs. Lovegood nodded again. True to form, Luna was perfectly candid about her feelings—almost unnervingly so. But her mother wasn't surprised. The Lovegoods had taught their daughter to be honest, plainspoken…and she was.

"You're afraid you'll never see him again, are you?" repeated Mrs. Lovegood. Luna nodded expressionlessly, eyes wide and inquisitive, trying to make sense of this disheartening new emotion.

"But you know that's not true, don't you?"

Luna looked startled. She met her mother's eyes, wondering how on Earth she'd be able to see her friend again. She was, after all, only a little girl, and her parents didn't seem the type to escort her across the country for a play-date. She may have found it easy to trust, to believe her parents whenever they told her or wondrous things—things that others insisted couldn't e real—but this was asking a bit too much.

Mrs. Lovegood raised her pale eyebrows. "What's this?" she asked lightly. "You don't believe me? Have your father and I ever steered you wrong?"

"No," began Luna hesitantly, not seeing how her parents could be right this time.

"When you go wading down in the brook, what do you think of?"

Luna scrunched up her eyes in concentration, trying to picture the feel of the cool, bubbling water around her ankles and toes and the thoughts it aroused in her mind. That was easy, really…

"I think about Davey and me fishing for Freshwater Plimpies," she said with the ghost of a smile. "He made us fishing poles out of sticks and string, and we took off our shoes so we could put our feet in the water because I said it would help us think like the Plimpies."

Mrs. Lovegood smiled warmly and leaned back in her chair. "And when you go to bed at night, what do you think of?"

There was no doubt about it, Luna's smile was genuine this time, though small and slightly hesitant. "I think about how we used the power of our minds to send secret messages back and forth, until we fall asleep, like Daddy taught me."

"And what about when I make you lunch?"

"I think about how Davey always wanted the crust cut off his sandwich ever since I told him about the Crumple-Horned Snorkack. I told him it was shy, and he said that it might be hungry, but it's too scared to come out looking for food, so he should leave it something to eat." Luna giggled. "He did that every time, but his mum never knew why."

"There now," soothed her mother. "You see, Luna? Even if you can't see him every day, Davey will still be there with you every time you head down to the brook and use his fishing pole. He'll be there when you think about all the fun times you two shared. You carry him inside of you, just as he carries you inside of him." She rested a finger on her daughter's forehead, indicating the miraculous place where her best friend would live, in secret, while he was in actuality so far away.

"Do you think he's really up here, Mummy?" Luna asked skeptically. Her mother looked mildly surprised.

"Is the Blibbering Humdinger real?"

Almost instantly, Luna's doubtful expression cleared, to be replaced by an expression of complete trust and total confidence. "Of course it is!" she grinned, knowing for sure at last that she'd still be seeing her old playmate…just perhaps in a way that was different from what she was used to. There was nothing wrong with that; her parents had always told her that 'different' was what made the world beautiful.

"Excellent!" Mrs. Lovegood exclaimed, hugging her daughter tight and murmuring something about making some sandwiches. Luna nodded eagerly, taking the steps two-at-a-time on her way down to the kitchen. She settled herself eagerly at the cluttered table as her mother set a delicious-looking egg-and-tomato sandwich on the table in front of her and headed back to finish mixing up a batch of chocolate pudding, Luna's favorite. Licking her lips in satisfaction, Luna raised the sandwich to her mouth and paused. With a bittersweet smile, she placed the sandwich back on her plate, took up the knife and proceeded to neatly cut off all the crust. Settling it along the edges of her plate in satisfaction, she tucked in to her sandwich, convinced at last that what her mother had told her was true, and that the ones we love never truly leave us.

* * *

_In case you're wondering, I was kind of inspired by what Luna said to Harry after Sirius died, about how the people we've lost are "just lurking out of sight." Now, Luna's little friend Davey isn't dead like Sirius, or indeed like Luna's mother will be even within two short years of this story, but I wanted to explore the origins of her ushakable faith. It's funny, some people find it hard to believe, after losing a loved one, that they're still 'out there', somewhere-just look at Harry! But Luna has never once been one to doubt. Judging by how...unusual...her daddy is, I always thought of Luna's mom as being the more grounded half of their partnership, but still as unshakeably strong in her convictions as Luna herself. And of course Luna, as always, doesn't hesitate to tell it _exactly_ as she sees it and analyze her own thoughts and emotions from an almost scientific perspective. _

_Well, I hope everyone enjoyed Luna. As for the next chapter, I offer a choice! Behold the following three options:_

_1. Gabrielle Delacour_

_2. Peter Pettigrew_

_3. Albus Dumbledore_

_I'll say no more, as I want each to remain a surprise for my readers. There's a poll on my profile page you can use to cast your vote. The chapters will be published in the order of how many votes each chapter gets (from most to least). Your first choice will be posted within a week's time. Happy voting and please, don't forget to **review!**_

_On va se 'oir,_

_Delilah_


	43. Letters From Home

_Hello, everyone! First of all, I want to apologize-I messed up while setting up my poll, so it never made it to my profile page. However, some people voted in their reviews, so that's what I went by. We had a tie between Gabrielle Delacour and Albus Dumbledore, so I decided to post Dumbledore first and Gabrielle right after him, because Gabrielle's is the lightest of the three suggested chapters and I thought she'd balance out the tone nicely. _

_Just saw DH Part 2 last night and it's still hard to believe that, to some degree, it's all over. I won't spoil it for anyone who hasn't gone yet, though, with talk of the things I liked and the things I wasn't too keen on. I will, however, say that Hermione's impression of Bellatrix Lestrange is funny, and that Alan Rickman deserves an Oscar. Enough said. _

_Before we move on to the chapter, some notices:_

_1. I'm going on vacation, so no update next week (sorry). I will post Gabrielle when I return._

_2. Time for the Reviewers' Hall of Fame: **Addicted-to-Sugar-Quills, Jezabel Raewin, TruthHurtsLikeHell, Louey06, MidsummerNightGirl, TheOnlyMarauderette, junebugbug9, Dimcairien, Dee, prizbokc, reader, XXXMariellaXXX, **and** A Random Person. **I would also like to extend my sincere thanks and appreciation to everyone who added this story to their Favorites (82 people) or Alerts (65 people) or who added me to their Favorite Authors or Author Alerts (There were a few of each in this chapter). I'm incredibly flattered. _

_3. Finally, I apologize if Albus doesn't seem as...mature and wise as we're used to. He's only eleven here, and he's learning for perhaps the first time that adults, like children, make big mistakes and they can't always fix them. It will be a while before he fully understands this. Enjoy!_

* * *

Letters From Home

Albus paused, his quill hovering over the paper, dripping ink, poised to write but unsure of what to say. He had so many things on his mind just now, but for once in his life, he was completely unsure of how to give voice to his musings.

_Dear Father_, he wrote, after endless deliberation.

But now… what to say? What does one say to a father serving a life sentence in Azkaban? How could mere words on paper translate the feelings of loss, of abandonment, of injustice? He put quill to parchment and began to write, the words coming awkwardly at first, as though Albus were writing the first letter to an unknown penfriend, rather than writing to the father he knew he'd never see again.

_Dear Father,_

_How are you?_

Here, Albus froze, not believing that he'd actually written that. 'How are you?' What kind of question was that? The man was in Azkaban, for God's sake! He could probably offer any of a whole series of answers in response to 'How are you?', and Albus was willing to bet that none of them would be positive.

_Father, why'd you do it? What were you thinking? Did you think of Mother, or Ariana, or Aberforth? Did you think of me? Did you realize you'd be abandoning us?_

He stopped writing and threw his quill down angrily, disgusted at the fact that now, at the young age of ten, he was being forced to step into his father's shoes, become the man of the house and take care of his mother and siblings. He'd had so many dreams; his future had seemed to open up, vastly, in front of him…and it had all turned to ashes and crumbled before his eyes in the time it took his father to whip out his wand in pursuit of vengeance. He abandoned the letter in frustration.

Weeks passed before Albus could bring himself to face the mostly-blank parchment that lay on his desk. He took a deep breath before picking up his quill, wondering how best to describe the hardships that had fallen upon the little family.

_Dear Father,_

_Mother is finding it hard to manage without you. _

Kendra Dumledore was showing the strain. Though young, her brow seemed prematurely furrowed; she walked as though she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. On the rare occasions she went out—to the store, perhaps, on some errand—Albus watched her leave from the shelter of the stairs. She stood before the front door, and a transformation came over her. She stood up straighter, her shoulders came back, she held her head high as if none of this nightmare had ever happened, and instantly her face changed into the impassive mask she wore out in public to conceal her private shame. Only her sons knew what it cost her to put on this charade when, on the inside, her heart was breaking.

_We had to move away, you know. It's hard to start over._

Yes, it was hard to start over. Here, Albus had no friends, no company except his odd little brother. And Ariana, poor, sweet, damaged Ariana! He felt a pang of guilt as he reflected on how difficult it was even to face her after what had happened. The lies Mother taught them to tell—to the neighbors, shopkeepers…sometimes, Albus felt he was even lying to himself, trying in vain to convince himself that he was doing the right thing and that somehow it would all be okay…

But would it?

_Dear Father,_

_It's my birthday today. I'm eleven years old. I wish you could have been here to celebrate with us. It was very quiet._

_I'm trying to take care of Mother and Aberforth, and Ariana, too. I will be going to Hogwarts soon, and I know I will make you proud…_

Hmph, proud! What did his father know of pride? He'd allowed himself to get carried away, hadn't he? Certainly, what had happened to Ariana was a tragedy, but the _real_ tragedy was what had followed. Father was gone, Mother was so different now that it was like living with a stranger, and the Dumbledore house—for it would never, ever again be called a _home_—had acquired the permanent feel of a poorly-attended wake. Albus couldn't _wait_ to get out; the sheer effort of facing each new day with the reality of what had happened staring at him from across the breakfast table was just too much to bear. He wanted to be like the rest of the students headed off to Hogwarts, with normal families to kiss them goodbye on the platform, and he secretly resented them all for depriving him of this. He hated his father for what he had done and Ariana for being the instrument of Father's undoing; he hated his mother for the life she was forcing him to lead and Aberforth for going along with it and being too stupid to realize that everything had been ruined. Most of all, he hated himself for having these thoughts, for not being able to bring himself to care for Ariana in the way a big brother should.

_Dear Father,_

_Hogwarts is incredible. It seems like every day, I learn something new—and yet, with each new spell or charm I learn, I have to find out more!_

_It isn't all fun, though. The other students stare at me in the halls. They point and whisper behind their hands. Some of them tell me they approve of what you did; I don't know what to think about this. I don't want to be ashamed of you, Father, but I can't help it. _

Hogwarts was both a blessing and a curse. Albus had arrived eager to learn, to make friends…only to find himself standing in what felt like a bright spotlight. Other students skirted him in the corridors, convinced he was a Muggle-hater like his disgraced father. "Attack any children lately?" one older boy jeered; "My mum's a Muggle, does that mean someone should go after her, too?" hissed a second-year girl as he worked in the library. "Well done," murmured one tall boy in the Great Hall, winking disturbingly as Albus shuddered under his gaze and the unsettling suggestion that he, too, hated Muggles. If only they knew…

"Albus?" He shook himself mentally. It was Elphias, his new friend. _Maybe the only one I have…_

"Yes?"

Elphias was looking a lot better than he had when Albus first met him; his greenish coloring had faded considerably. Perhaps once he no longer looked contagious, he'd move on to better friends, ones whose fathers _weren't _in prison for attacking Muggles.

He looked over Albus' shoulder, to see what he was working on so attentively. He looked up, from the unfinished letter to his friend's face, which looked weary, as though the emotional weight of what had happened in his family was just too much for an eleven-year-old boy. Elphias didn't know all the details, but everyone knew what Percival Dumbledore had done and Albus had never tried to deny the truth. It couldn't be easy to live with such a scandal.

"Albus?" Elphias ventured shyly. He wasn't sure how to approach this; he had only asked Albus about his father's guilt once, and even that occasion had merited courage. "You don't need to be ashamed of him, you know."

"Hmm?" Albus looked confused; it wasn't often that anything slipped past his brilliant mind and Elphias was caught off-guard.

"Your father. You don't need to be ashamed of him. Maybe he just didn't know any better. Maybe—" here, Elphias silently prayed he was right and that there was more to Percival's story than met the eye, "—maybe he didn't mean for it to turn out this way."

"No," agreed Albus softly, "no, I'm sure he didn't." He crumbled his letter, smoothed out a fresh piece of parchment in front of him and dipped his quill in the ink.

_Dear Father,_

_I understand, even if I don't like it, and I love you. I'll try to do as you would._

_Your son, _

_Albus_

He folded up his letter, sealed it, and tied it to the leg of his owl. For a moment, Albus watched as the owl grew smaller and smaller, flying off into the distance until it was finally out of sight.

* * *

_Of course, we all know that it will be a long time befire Albus really comes to terms with what his father did and thinks about his loved ones before himself-as he confessed to Harry, he loved them, but he was very selfish for a long time._

_So, what did you think? I hope I did him justice; Dumbledore was a challenge! Now, the next chapter I will post is Gabrielle Delacour-she'll be posted as soon as I get home from vacation (not next week, but the week after). While you're waiting, don't forget to **review**!_

_Please keep sending me your ideas (both for characters and scenarios to place them in), as I'm starting to run out. I rememer I had a week of daily updates last summer, but I also had a lot more unused material back then._

_On va se 'oir, _

_Delilah_


	44. Chopsticks

_ Good morning, everyone! Well, as my computer continues to hate me, slowly dying one piece at a time, l managed to bring you an update, just as I'd promised upon my return from my vacation. I hope the wait hasn't been too bad. And, as I mentioned in regards to your votes, this chapter shall feature Gabrielle Delacour._

_Of course, before we begin, allow me to thank the people who reviewed or otherwise acknowledged the story: **Just Haven't Met You Yet, maryq, the facebooker, CNB, The Blasphemous Contessa, SheWhoDancesWithPeacocks, excessivelyperky, Dimcairien, LoueyO6, MidsummerNightGirl, A Random Person, junebugbug96** and **prizbokc**. Hope didn't miss anybody; there were some Alerts and Favorites but l think l deleted the emails._

_And now, without further ado: Gabrielle!_

* * *

Chopsticks

_Ping…ping…ping…_

The sounds of the piano's delicate, tinkling notes meandered lazily out the open window. Gabrielle traced the ivory and ebony keys with a single dainty finger.

_How do I do it?_ she thought in mild frustration. The piano lessons she had begged her mother for did not seem to be working, as she had yet to master anything more complicated than "Chopsticks." _I've been practicing _forever_—a whole month! Why can't I play better? _

Fleur, too, had been signed up for piano lessons a few years ago, before she went off to school. However, she had never showed the lessons much interest. Plodding unenthusiastically forward through years of études and nocturnes, she finally told their mother that she'd played her last "Für Elise" and the matter was never addressed again. Gabrielle was unsurprised. Fleur was always in motion, a constant flurry of activity and life. She clearly lacked the patience that great art demanded…at least in her little sister's eyes.

Her mother had given her the gift of beauty. But it was her father whom Gabrielle regarded with a certain sense of awe. Apolline Delacour's veela charm, after all, had no effect on her similarly-gifted daughter, but her husband's own special gift was one that Gabrielle secretly coveted.

Monsieur Delacour sat down at the piano bench and coaxed from its keys melodies of startling beauty, the same kind of startling beauty that _les femmes Delacour_ inspired in strangers. Maman liked to tease that his musical genius had been what had seduced her, to the point where Gabrielle, burning with curiosity, looked up 'seduce' in the dictionary, recoiled in embarrassment and pushed the heavy dictionary to the very back of the shelf, not wanting ever again to envision either of her parents being seductive in any way.

Still, Gabrielle never tired of listening to him play. Papa could make the notes come out soft and sweet like summer raindrops, or roar like thunder, or tremble with such frantic anxiety that Gabrielle would have trouble standing still. As he played, his face assumed a dreamy sort of concentration that could only betoken a sojourn in a world completely his own. Gabrielle longed to visit such a world.

_Plink, plink, plonk, BAM!_ Another false note! She drew her hands back from the keyboard in fears of producing yet another assault on the senses, trying with all her might not to start sobbing in outright frustration.

"Problem, _ma belle?_" asked her father's voice from somewhere not far behind. Gabrielle spun to face him on the piano bench, her lower lip jutting out as though to warn all of her impending bad temper.

"I give up," she began irritably. "I'm no good at this! I keep making mistakes!"

He smiled at her, though she couldn't imagine why. This was clearly _not_ a smiling situation.

"You've only been taking lessons for a month," Papa began gently, as though willing Gabrielle to look at the situation from a rational perspective. She heaved an impressive sigh.

"But I want to play like _you_," she pouted, and her father stifled a grin.

"You will," he insisted. "It just takes time. It took me years to learn how to play. You'll get there; you're already doing well for someone who just started."

Gabrielle shook her head stubbornly. "It's not good enough," she replied. "I don't _want_ it to take years. I _hate_ practicing. Every time I practice, people cover their ears. When I played at Tante Bernadette's house, her cat started yowling along with the piano until Grand-pere begged me to stop. I'm awful!" With that, she swung her legs around so that she faced her back to the piano, arms folded, lower lip still jutting out dejectedly.

Papa nodded, wondering how best to approach the situation. With Fleur, it had been so easy—she had simply lost interest in her lessons and calmly said she'd prefer to stop. "They're boring," she had said. "I'd much rather be doing something else." There had been no frustration, no feelings of inadequacy to cope with. This, he reflected, was an entirely different situation altogether.

"Have I ever told you the story of how I gave up piano?" he asked, settling himself on the ground before Gabrielle, who looked up from where she'd been staring blankly at her shoes in disbelief.

"You never gave up the piano!" she gasped, shaking her head for emphasis. Papa nodded gravely. "Oh, yes I did. My friends made fun of me. While I was taking piano lessons, they were playing sports. My own brother gave up violin lessons for fencing lessons. What do you think looked more impressive, dashing around with a sword—a _sword, _Gabrielle!—or plunking out wrong notes on the piano in my grand-mere's parlor, where she kept her collection of ceramic roosters?"

Gabrielle giggled at the thought of her father as a young boy, desperately longing for a hobby that the other boys would think was cool. What would _she_ say to a friend who spent his days playing piano for an old lady and her ceramic roosters while all the other boys were out flying and playing sports? It was almost enough to make her feel sorry for him, except…

"But you're so good, Papa! Your friends must have thought you were talented!"

He shook his head. "Back then, I really wasn't all that good at all," he confessed. "My maman bought me a book of very easy songs to start out with. They all had titles like 'My Pony' and 'At the Fair', and the pages were decorated with these idiotic little drawings! It was so embarrassing, but what could she do? I couldn't play good enough to use any of the harder songbooks yet."

As though to illustrate how pathetic he had once been, Papa motioned for Gabrielle to move over. She slid obediently to the very end of the piano bench as her father sat down beside her. Flexing his fingers expertly, he proceeded to pound out a ridiculously simple melody, using only two fingers and singing along in a flat, unenthusiastic voice.

"Trot, trot, trot…go and ne-ver stop." Turning back to face his daughter, who was giggling into her hand, Papa raised his eyebrows in triumph. "I certainly had to pay my dues, Gabrielle. Imagine playing that inane pony song again and again, day in and day out! But I kept at it, because I knew that every time I played it, I got a little bit better. And the better I got, the closer I got to showing my friends what _real_ music could sound like."

He smiled this time, and she met his smile with a radiant grin of her own. Papa stood up, stretched and added, "Now, why don't you try that piece again, and I'll tell you how you can fix it?"

Gabrielle nodded, eager to prove that she, too, could get better and better with each try. _Ping…ping…ping… ping…ping…ping…PLONK!_ She sighed again, but Papa shook his head and placed his hands over hers. "Hold your hands like this," he said, demonstrating. "That way, it will be easier for you to progress from one note to the next without hitting the wrong key." He stepped back and indicated for her to try it again.

Gabrielle took a deep, steadying breath. She looked out the window, through the lace curtains, resting her eyes on a bird sitting in a nearby tree. The bird's beautiful melodies were so effortless! Moving her hands into position over the smooth piano keys, she began to play.

She only got a few bars further than she had the last time, but to Gabrielle, it was like composing a symphony. She looked up from the piano, her face positively shining with happiness. "I did it!" she cried out.

"Good," said her father with a smile. "Now, let's try that next part…"

And as the birds continued to sing outside the lace-curtained window, as passers-by stopped to listen to the notes wafting through and as Apolline Delacour raised her head every so often from the book she was reading in the garden, father and daughter bent over the gleaming piano, coaxing the music out of its empty shell like magicians conjuring flowers from nowhere. Though it sounded unremarkable to the uninitiated, the two pianists alone knew that herein lay the foundations for a master.

_Just wait 'til Fleur comes home for the holidays,_ thought Gabrielle in satisfaction. _Won't she be surprised! She'll wish she never gave up the piano!_

* * *

_ Well, there you have it! I must say, I'm a little jealous-I wish I could play piano (or, well, anything). I never learned to play an instrument; l was in the glee club. In case you're wondering, "My Pony" is a real piano exercise from my cousin's songbook. _

_Peter Pettigrew makes his debut in the next chapter. Future chapters already being planned are as follows: Tom Riddle, Colin Creevey, Narcissa Black, Dudley Dursley,Charity Burbage, Justin Finch-Fletchley and Dominique Weasley. Please don't hesitate to send me your suggestions, as all this is subject to change if our characters refuse to cooperate. _

_One last reminder: don't forget to **review**!_

_On va se 'oir, _

_Delilah_


	45. Choosing Sides

_I did not neglect you guys, I swear. My computer finally died on me. It's in for repairs. A friend has kindly allowed me to update via her computer. Thank God for flash drives!_

_As promised, this chapter will finally round out the Marauders with Peter Pettigrew. I know I've mentioned my distaste for the Marauders in the past. Way back when, I was no more than a scrawny kid from the 'wrong side of the tracks', I suppose you could say-and as such, a target for my own school's gang of popular bullies. My best friend was in a different class and so I was pretty much left to defend myself in whatever way I could. I'm grown now, but as everyone knows, there is no escaping your past, not entirely. And as I'd never been able to truly forgive my old schoolmates, writing characters that remind me of them without bias or prejudice is not easy. I hope I did them justice and provided some degree of explanation for my lack of Marauder-love._

_I see young Peter operating in 'survival mode'-whatever course of action keeps him safe is the one he chooses. He follows a modified utilitarianism-"my actions are right in proportion to the happiness they promote (to me) and the degree to which they prevent (my) pain." He's constantly looking out for 'number one.' Of course, this makes him dangerously unpredictable and prone to swapping loyalties to whomever can offer him the best protection, but we all know how that turns out._

_Before we begin, the Hall of Fame: Special thanks to **Lifesgoodx3, catyhan313, ctc, Kiandra, summerlovin2011, BookGal26, MidsummerNightGirl, prizbokc, RoseyMulvey7, A Random Person, SheWhoDancesWithPeacocks, Dimcairien, Shannon xxx, Jezabel Raewin**,** LoueyO6, Kia, Looneynamelass, ParadoxicallyRandom, FiveofDiamonds, Magicsquirrel, and Ro Montenegro** for your reviews and favorites! I'm glad everyone liked sweet little Gabrielle._

* * *

Choosing Sides

There was once a small playground in a quiet suburb where children would play. They would swing on the swingset, stretching their legs out toward the sky, daring each other to _just let go_ and see how far they'd soar. They'd play leapfrog and run races. Or perhaps not.

Peter was a timid boy. _Timid as a mouse,_ his mother would say. His father had other ways of putting it, but never to his son's face. Instead, he encouraged him jovially to toughen up.

"C'mon, son, put 'em up there! Like a real man!" And Peter would nod, brow furrowed in concentration, as he imitated his father's every mannerism. We all become our parents someday, they say.

The elder Mr. Pettigrew was not a big man. He was not an exceptionally intimidating man, either. But he surrounded himself with an aura of practical wisdom that he imparted to his son whenever he could.

"Don't let 'em think they can walk all over you, son," he'd say. "If you give them a reason to think they can bully you, they will."

Bullies. Peter knew all about bullies. They stalked the play park near his house, shaking down smaller kids for their pocket money and looking for fights. Peter wasn't stupid enough to get in their way, but that didn't mean they'd never notice him.

It was a cloudy, overcast day, and consequentially few children were out to play. Peter looked around the playground. A brother and sister taking the swings in turns. Three girls skipping rope, double-Dutch. And a boy about his age, give or take, shooting marbles in a solitary patch of dreary sunlight.

Peter knew these kids were Muggles, that he was different than them, but that didn't really bother him. Company was company, after all, and wasn't his father Muggle-born, anyway? No, it mattered not what someone was born, but what he made of himself. That was what Dad always said. Peter was going to make something of himself one day.

He approached the boy with the marbles slowly, cautiously. Peter had been through his share of rejection in the past. He wasn't what most of his mother's acquaintances would consider a 'cute' little boy. Chubby, oddly colorless, he was a wallflower and almost nobody's darling. He had little inclination to open himself up to face rejection. And yet, here he was, approaching a potential playmate…a potential friend?

The boy had stopped analyzing the casual spread of his marbles. He had heard the approach of trainers on gravel, and he looked up to watch Peter's awkward approach. But _was_ that Peter making those far-too-loud crunching footsteps?

"Oi! You! Got any money?"

It was a boy Peter had seen on the playground before. He was no stranger to any frequent inhabitant of the play park—a hulking, hard-faced boy with small, squinty eyes and two missing teeth. Peter secretly wondered if he'd lost the teeth the normal way, or else fighting some other boy for supremacy over the play park. Anything was possible.

This particular boy was called Russell, as far as Peter could remember. His arrival was usually accompanied by the jingling sound of stolen pocket money and the pervasive odor of stale crisps. Peter stepped back as the larger boy brushed past him.

"I just asked you if you got any money?"

The boy with the marbles shook his head mutely. The bully scowled.

"I don't believe it. You're lying to me!"

The other boy shook his head again, though this time with an air of slowly mounting panic. There was absolutely no way this encounter could end well, thought Peter as he watched with the detached manner of a surgeon. Not having progressed this way.

The bully seized the smaller boy by the front of his T-shirt and pulled him to his feet, simultaneously kicking his prized marbles so they scattered across the playground. The boy squealed in terror, turning out his pockets as fast as he could and protesting that he had nothing, no pocket money at all today, that his mum had insisted it was too chilly to buy ice cream from the van outside the park, while Peter stood watching in morbid curiosity, fearful that he himself would be Russell's next victim yet nonetheless unable to tear his eyes away from the spectacle that was unfolding right before him.

Convinced at last that his chosen victim had no money to part with, Russell shoved him to the hard ground one last time in disgust and, for good measure, picked up the nearest marble he could find—a big, shiny cat's-eye—and chucked as hard as he could into a clump of bushes. Grunting in distaste, Russell stomped off.

Peter moved in and held out a hand to the boy, but he pulled himself to his feet, shrugging off Peter's proffered hand in disgust.

"Some help you were!" he spat, his face contorted with rage. "What's wrong with you? You would've just let him mess me up, would you? Why don't you just tag along with Russell, if you like watching kids get knocked around so much?" Peter shrugged in confusion. Surely this strange boy didn't expect him, Peter, to risk his own neck when, after all, they barely knew each other?

The boy gave Peter one last look of contempt before turning his back on him to search for his marbles, which now littered the play park. Peter turned, not really knowing where to go or exactly what he'd done wrong when, not paying attention to where he was going, he walked right into someone.

He looked up. It was Russell, the bully! He cracked his knuckles ominously. "What d'you want? You trying to start something?" he growled. Peter felt a nervous laugh escape his trembling lips.

"Good one," he heard himself say. "You know, that big shiny marble—he'll be looking for it for hours, I bet."

The bully looked long and hard at this soft, cowardly-looking, simpering boy. _I could tie him in a knot, no problem, _he thought. And yet, there was something gratifying in earning the fear and admiration of this spineless follower.

Grunting incoherently, Russell stomped off again, trudging right through the girls' twirling jump ropes and forcing them to abandon their game. But this time, he was accompanied by the nervous laughter and fawning presence of Peter, who looked back over his shoulder for a minute to see the nameless victim still searching dejectedly for his prized marbles.

_Am I doing the right thing?_ he asked himself. As if in answer to his query, a vision of his father swam through his mind's eye.

_Don't let 'em walk all over you, son, _his voice said. _It's a tough world out there. Look out for yourself and everything else'll fall into place. _

_I'm looking out for myself,_ Peter reasoned. _The other kids will understand._ After all, like all playground games, wasn't this just another matter of choosing sides? Everyone had to have a team to play on, a side to belong to…Peter thanked his father silently for having given him the good sense to choose the side that could look out for him. Just in case.

* * *

_As I'm not sure who will be finished next, I can't offer a preview. However, I'd like to invite those of you who follow my work to keep an eye out for a series of fics based on the Seven Deadly Sins (yes, I know, it's been done). Each story will feature 3 vignettes, with 3 different characters manifesting that particular vice in their own way. Coming your way sometime in the future!_

_Finally, I'm off to visit my relatives down South for two weeks, so don't worry that I disappeared or anything. They haven't seen me since the engagement so there's lots of catching up to do!_

_On va se 'oir,_

_Delilah_


	46. Paparazzi

_Remember how I said I had to put my computer in for repairs? Remember how that was back in August?_

_Well, it turns out I needed a new part for it. Parts cost money, money that I don't have...but Santa Claus apparently loves me, because I got my computer all repaired for Christmas! Which means that I am back to writing._

_Fair warning, though-I'm torn between lesson plans and school paperwork, assignments for grad school and planning this wedding, so my writing time is seriously limited these days. I'm still updating, so don't be concerned that I've abandoned you, but I can't give you guys a specific time frame for updates. _

_Special thanks to all the reviews, alerts and favorites that have been pouring in during this fic's hiatus. You guys are absolutely incredible! I'd love to list them all sepreately, but I know you're all eager for the latest installment. Happy reading and merry Christmas!_

* * *

Paparazzi

"Happy birthday, son!"

Colin tore the wrappings off the parcel with trembling, excited fingers. He had waited in anticipation all day for this moment. He had, of course, wanted to open his presents first thing in the morning, before going off to school, but his father was making his rounds in the morning and Colin's mother had insisted that they wait so that Colin's father could see him open his gifts.

"But _Mum,_" Colin had wheedled, "I'm only eight! I can't wait that long!"

Julia Creevey, however, did not budge on her position, and so Colin had spent a restless, never-ending day at school, waiting impatiently for the day to end so that he could open his birthday presents in peace.

He ripped off the last remnants of wrapping paper and tossed them carelessly over his shoulder, running his fingers over the glossy box in delight.

"Oh, _wow_," he breathed, as the Creeveys leaned over Colin's shoulder to take in his reaction.

It was a camera, a gleaming, brand-new camera. Colin tore open the box and gently pulled it out so that he could examine it in loving detail. There was an attachable strap that he could fasten around his neck like a _real_ newspaper photographer, and a lens cap that screwed on and off, and…

"Now, I don't know much about cameras, son," his father began, "but the bloke at the shop told me that's supposed to be a real good one." With a smile, he added, "Now maybe you can finally give your mum back _her_ camera."

Colin nodded vaguely, still taking in every glorious detail of his new camera. He couldn't wait to try it out. He sprung to his feet and brought the camera to his eye, pivoting on the spot in search of a subject and scarcely noticing his mother bustling forward with a package of film.

_Click!_ It was no longer difficult to tell when Colin was near. However quietly he might sneak up on a member of the family, the inevitable _click!_ always gave him away.

"Can't you wait until a decent hour?" his mother asked grumpily after Colin snapped her picture as she sat reviving over a hot cup of tea one morning, her hair in rollers. "Or at least give me a warning?"

"All the best photographers do candid shots," he replied, his tone suggesting that _everyone_—except perhaps his dim mother, of course—knew this.

Julia Creevey sighed, vaguely wondering when the word 'candid' had entered her son's vocabulary.

_Click!_ "MUM!" Julia ran up the stairs in a panic. She had been startled by the sound of her son Dennis' shouts. Last she had checked, he was supposed to be taking a bath; the sound of his shouts conjured up terrified visions in her mind of her five-year-old son drowning in the bathtub.

Dennis was standing in the bathtub, a fluffy white towel wrapped around him. His rubber duck floated, abandoned in the bathwater. His face bore an expression of indignant annoyance mixed with flushed embarrassment. Standing not three feet away, camera in hand, was Colin.

"But _Mum_," he'd insisted later as his mother confiscated the incriminating film, "that picture's part of my new exhibition! It's called _Tub Time_."

_Click!_ "Julia," came the sound of her husband's weary voice. "We have to talk about Colin."

"He's gone mad!" insisted Dennis, cutting right to the chase.

"There have been some, er, _complaints_…from the neighbors…"

Julia sighed, knowing what complaints he was talking about. "Yes, Mrs. Harris told me when I met her at the market…something about how Colin took pictures of her when her daughter came to color her hair and now there's thirty-odd pictures of Mrs. Harris in a plastic cap with her head swathed in auburn dye."

Mr. Creevey raised his eyebrows as Dennis giggled. "That's the least of our problems, dear," he said heavily, pulling a veritable wad of photographs from an envelope on the side table. As he tossed them, one by one, onto the low table opposite the sofa, he identified their humiliated subjects.

"Here's that Matthews bloke, picking his nose in his car…Old Man Willoughby without his hairpiece…and _don't_ forget this one of Mrs. Reilly, waiting for her husband to come home for dinner—"

"Wait a second, that doesn't sound so bad," reasoned Julia, "that sounds almost normal, now that you mention it…"

"—wearing nothing but a string of pearls and a pair of spike heels."

"Okay, I see the problem."

"Colin," Julia began, taking a deep breath. Her son sat on the sofa before her, camera in hand as usual, looking utterly nonplussed at this turn of events. Behind her chair, Julia could feel rather than see her husband and younger son, nodding mutely, urging her on. _Some help they are!_

"Mum!" Colin interrupted joyfully. "You should see the photos I got at the park today! They're brilliant! There's this one of an old lady feeding the pigeons—"

"Colin, we think you need to take a break from your camera," Julia Creevey blurted out. The words came out so fast, as she'd been pressed to say them before she lost her nerve, that she couldn't blame her son from looking puzzled as he tried to decipher his mother's rushed utterance. Come to think of it, it had sounded utterly unintelligible, like some strange foreign language. Swahili, perhaps.

Suddenly, the confusion cleared as a new expression dawned on Colin's face. Comprehension, followed swiftly by hurt and anger.

"What! But, Mum, _why_?" He was practically whining at the perceived unfairness of the situation.

"Colin, this has gotten a bit out of hand," his mother replied gently, hoping to minimize the damage as quickly as she'd created it.

"Your father and brother and I are tired of walking around the house, peering around corners to see if you're there with your camera. The neighbors aren't even safe in their homes. Everyone's private business is all of a sudden common knowledge, and we all seem to know a lot more about each other than we'd ever cared to know in the first place."

Colin's lower lip jutted out defiantly. "I'm an _artist,_" he insisted.

"Even artists need to have limits," she reminded him. "Now, as fun as cornering the neighbors must be, what d'you say we put that camera to better use?"

Silence. Thoughtful silence, as Colin cocked his head and pondered this striking new possibility.

_Click!_ "Alright, everybody, budge in there, a little closer. Now, big smiles…there we go…_click!_" Colin lowered the camera from in front of his face and looked up. His family stood before him—four generations, gathered for the annual reunion in matching T-shirts and sunglasses. Sure, it wasn't as glamorous as his photographic artistry had been, nor did photographing the family reunion provide the indescribable thrills of sneaking up on unsuspecting subjects…but it was, Colin realized, a more socially acceptable way of indulging his passion. Now, his photography skills were restricted to chronicling holidays, birthdays, opening presents on Christmas morning, and he truly didn't mind…much.

_Oh, well, _he thought to himself, _it'll do for now. Someday, I'll be a famous photographer. I'll take pictures of famous people, and amazing places, and someday everyone will see my pictures…_

* * *

_If you read my Lily Luna chapter "Insomnia", you know that Colin's photography is indeed seen by everyone someday. I hope everyone enjoyed this long-awaited chapter and please feel free to send me suggestions, comments, requests and reviews as they occur to you. I'm off to write out a stack of thank-you notes!_

_Joyeux Noel,_

_Delilah_


	47. Hero

_Hello, Readers! Our next chapter explores the notion of heroism. It's funny, but sometimes it's the littlest things that make a man (or a woman, but in this chapter it's a man) a hero to his children. _

_But first, a special thank you to my last chapter's reviewers. Glad to see I still have some readers left after my long absence! Thanks a million to **excessivelyperky, MuggleCreator, Emily1799, ParadoxicallyRandom, KKool, SheWhoDancesWithPeacocks, A Random Person, xmidnight9x, prizbokc, dancergirl7, Lauraw18, FFFreak21, MidsummerNightGirl, Louey06, theantigk, LillyOfTheField, SimplyEcho** and anyone who reviewed or otherwise responded to this story during my foced hiatus. Remember, keep those suggestions coming!_

* * *

Hero

The adults were sitting at the kitchen table, washing down dessert with their choice of coffee or tea. In the living room, ten year old Dominique sat, playing with her younger brother Louis and her cousins, Rose and Hugo.

Rose was only seven, but she was very bright and made good company, thought Dominique. The two girls were closer than just cousins; they were _friends_. They giggled as they watched their brothers engaged in mock combat in the middle of the room.

"There! You're defeated, you villainous…uh, villain," Hugo finished somewhat lamely.

"What? Never!" contended Louis. "How come I always have to be defeated?"

Hugo sighed impressively. "Because I'm the hero, that's why," he explained with a pained expression. "I'm the most heroicest hero! I'm more heroic than Uncle Harry, because I don't wear those awful glasses. I'm even more heroic than _Dad_!"

Rose shushed her brother as though he'd just uttered blasphemy. "No one's more heroic than Dad," she said with an air of finality. The boys shrugged and continued in their game as Rose picked up a magazine and left Dominique to her thoughts.

_Maybe Uncle Ron _is_ a hero,_ she thought, _but I know someone who's even more heroic than him. Someone who doesn't wear sweaters with his initial on them, so he doesn't forget his name._

Bill Weasley was his daughter Dominique's hero. He was _cool_. He had long hair and an earring. He dressed like a rock star. He'd married a _veela_, for goodness' sake!

Bill had worked as a cruse-breaker, years ago, before he'd married Fleur. He'd faced peril and spiders and lots of dust as he'd snuck into ancient tombs in search of priceless treasures. And he was covered in scars.

Scars were _cool_. They were the incontrovertible, tangible proof of Bill's heroism. Proof that he had really fought in battle, really stood up to protect the ones he loved. He'd really fought a terrifying werewolf and made it out alive and intact…well, _somewhat_ intact. He'd fought to make the world safe for Dominique, even before he'd met her.

But these weren't the reasons why Bill was his daughter's hero. Plenty of people had fought in battle, especially all those years ago when it seemed like the whole world had been at war. Lots of people dressed in cool clothes. A bunch even had earrings. No, there was something else that had convinced Dominique of her father's near cult-status. Something that Bill himself probably didn't even remember, that Dominique wasn't meant to have witnessed, several years ago…

* * *

_All of me...why not take all of me? Baby, can't you see—I'm no good without you?_

Dominique hid herself at the top of the stairs, trying with all her might to conceal herself in the shadows. The singer's sultry, jazzy voice floated out of the sitting room, into the hall and up the stairs. Dominique fought the urge to tap her foot in time to the sound of the horns; she compromised by stealing another glimpse down the stairs.

_Your good-bye left me with eyes that cry…how can I go on, dear, without you? You took apart what once was my heart…so why not take all of me?_

Bill and Fleur were twirling around the sitting room to the sounds of Ella Fitzgerald's scatting. Fleur was wearing an old dressing gown with what looked like powdered sugar ground into the left sleeve somewhere near her elbow. Bill had forgotten to put in his earring and had discarded his shoes by the front door when he'd come in from work. The sitting room was a chaos of toys, picture books and what appeared to be a half-eaten banana. But as they danced, all that faded away.

They could've been in an ornate Art Deco ballroom, in some elegant faraway city, surrounded by champagne and crystal. Dominique imagined her father in a top hat and tails, or perhaps a white dinner jacket and black bow tie, his hair slicked back into an immaculate ponytail, like in some old Muggle spy film Granddad Weasley had taken her to see once at a classic cinema festival (_his_ idea, once Aunt Hermione had foolishly explained film to him). Her mother could've been arrayed in a silk gown, with diamond hairpins and long white gloves, her silvery blonde hair elaborately curled and set. It wouldn't have mattered; there was no way they could look more perfect, or the scene more romantic, than it already was. It was as though someone had cast an enchantment over them, transforming them from two exhausted parents of three small children, swaying in a small and cluttered sitting room to matinee idols dancing the night away at an upscale supper club.

_Take my lips—I'll want to lose them! Take my arms—I won't use them!_

Bill swung Fleur around, twirled her in towards him and tilted her backward in one fluid motion. She arced her neck forward and kissed him, elegantly. Dominique raised her eyebrows. It wasn't as if she'd never seen her parents be affectionate before—quite the opposite. No, what surprised her was that nowadays, while they were always so busy and harried and tired, her parents could still find time to be spontaneous and romantic, like she'd always imagined them. Her mother was giggling like a schoolgirl; her father shaking his hair from his face like a model in a perfume advertisement.

A muffled snore from the open door of the girls' bedroom caused Dominique to jump slightly. She didn't want Victoire coming and breaking the spell; she realized that, to others, her parents probably looked downright ridiculous, but she didn't care. To Dominique, they looked like the romantic leads in a modern fairy tale. They looked like everyday heroes. They looked…_cool_. Maybe it was the music. Maybe…

* * *

"Make way for the most heroic hero ever to save the day!" Hugo's rambunctious cry shattered Dominique's recollection. She looked up to see her parents gathering the family's coats and beginning the long, drawn out ordeal of goodbyes. An average session of Weasley goodbyes could take upwards of an hour.

"Ready to go, kid?" Bill asked jauntily, leaning in to whisper in his daughter's ear. "Gotta hit the road so these old folks—" here, he indicated Ron and Hermione and continued in a mock whisper "—can get off to bed."

Dominique giggled and nodded pulling on her coat and letting out a squeal of delight as her father swept her up and set her on his shoulders. He'd rescued her, like a knight rescues a damsel in distress, both from taking part in Hugo's silly game and from the boring farewells of the adults. She waved to her cousins from her lofty pedestal.

At the sight of Bill tapping his foot in exaggerated impatience, Fleur said one last goodbye to Hermione (_who'd have thought they'd get on so well after all these years?_) and the little family finally made their way out into the starry night, Dominique ducking as they passed through the door to avoid bumping her head on the lintel. As the grass crunched underfoot, she felt completely and utterly content, swaying slightly with her father's every footstep, knowing he'd never let her fall. The simple eloquence in the way he put an arm around his wife's waist, the way he casually ruffled Louis' hair was all Dominique would ever need to remind her that she was, and would always be, safe and loved and treasured. They all were.

Bill Weasley was his daughter's hero. He was a war hero, a rock star, a romantic idol. And, despite all this…he was a regular bloke who loved each of his children like they were his only child, who adored his wife like a lovesick schoolboy and who never hesitated to play around like a carefree child whenever and wherever he could.

* * *

_Yes, my dad's my hero, too. I think I was inspired to do this chapter when my mom asked what song Dad and I would dance to at my wedding and I started wondering if I'd cry or not. My hope for all my readers out there is that someday each of you are, in some small way, a hero to someone. Even if you don't know it._

_Well, my usual ending comments apply. Please review and let me know what you thaought. Please feel free to send me any ideas, requests or suggestions you may have. And as always, happy reading._

_On va se 'oir, _

_Delilah_

_PS-The song Bill and Fleur danced to-"All of Me", by Ella Fitzgerald-is amazingly catchy. I do recommend listening to it if you enjoy jazz. I personally like to sing it in the shower. Don't know if my upstairs neighbor (or, for that matter, my downstairs neighbor) feels the same way. Until we meet again! I'd love to give a preview, but several of my upcoming chapters are in similar states of non-completion, so I have no clue which will be done first. Cheers!_


	48. Privilege

_Now that decided to be nice and let me access my Document Manager, I bring you...an update! As I've mentioned so many times before, please forgive the sporadic nature of my updates...between work, grad school and planning this wedding, I don't think I've had a minute to myself in months._

_Anyway, I hope you enjoy the chapter and it makes up for the wait a bit. It's been a work in progress for months!_

* * *

Privilege

The gleaming Rolls-Royce pulled out of the winding gravel drive as smoothly as a ship sailing on a waveless sea. Inside, a chicly dressed woman leaned in towards her eleven-year-old son. When she spoke, her voice was soft and melodious.

"What are you thinking of, darling?" she asked the boy, who was seated between his parents and looking determinedly at his knees. He looked up, startled.

"I don't know, Mum…just nervous, I guess," said Justin. Lady Finch-Fletchley smiled, then wrapped an arm around her son.

"And, of course, you'll be two years ahead of Prince William," added Lady Finch-Fletchley. She left the implications of this momentous proclamation hanging temporarily in midair.

"Mmm," his father murmured from behind his newspaper. He was half-hidden behind _The_ _Times_, but every now and then he would give some indication of his continued presence.

Justin looked back down at his knees, but soon grew tired of this and attempted to look past his father's newspaper and out the window. The scenery rolled by steadily.

* * *

Sir Robert and Lady Finch-Fletchley sat in handsome leather chairs in front of the elaborately carved wooden desk, discussing fees for enrolment for Michaelmas half and the extra cost of fencing lessons. Justin allowed his eyes to wander around the office. The marble fireplace, the highly-polished wood floors, the countless awards and accolades framed on the paneled walls…the very air seemed to exude a feel of academia and scholarship. Outside the window, he could see boys of various ages in tailcoats and starchy-white shirts, chatting nonchalantly and going about their daily business.

This would be his home, soon—his home for much of the year. It was a privilege, he knew…a great privilege to go to the best school in the country, to meet all sorts of new friends and get the finest education his parents could provide. They wanted the best for him, that couldn't be denied. Still, it would be…an adjustment.

While his parents would continue to get up every morning and breakfast at the immense dining room table, surrounded by crystal juice glasses and china teacups, he, Justin, would be waking up in some dormitory miles away. While his little sister would spend her weekends accompanying his parents to social engagements, he'd be busing himself with his studies. He'd never really thought about how much he'd miss. Rothwell Fair, the Crick Boat Show, the Grand Prix…

Looking up at the sudden sound of fluttering and chairs scraping, Justin saw the sheaf of papers that were in the midst of being completed with the details of his admissions information fly off the great, carved desk in a graceful, almost theatrical arc. The school official apologized profusely, Sir Robert and Lady Finch-Fletchley brushed the apologies aside with a lot of "Not at all"s and "Please, allow me"s, and the three adults got to their knees to retrieve the fallen papers.

Odd, though, that they should've blown away like that…the window wasn't even open…

As his mother's perfectly-manicured hand lowered over one of the scattered documents, poised to snatch it and return to the business at hand, the paper gave a sudden twitch, like a sleeping dog that suddenly heard its name. Wide-eyed in utter amazement, Justin watched as the paper and its fellows (still scattered unceremoniously around the room) rose into the air and began to fly wildly around the room like a flock of confused birds.

"What in…" his father began in disbelief, as his mother used her handbag to shelter her face from the flurry of flying paper. The admissions counselor wore a similar expression of shock, muttering numerous expressions of utter amazement, but ultimately failing to express a single cohesive thought. Justin merely sat, frozen, with a inexplicable smile o his face, watching the mayhem unfold.

_Why are you smiling?_ a tiny voice in the back of his head asked, slightly disapprovingly. Justin considered the question. Why _was_ he smiling, indeed? Shouldn't he be…shocked? Or scared? Anything would probably be a better reaction than 'mildly amused,' which perfectly described Justin's initial reaction to the paper frenzy. He cast his eyes around the office, taking it all in. The mysteriously animated papers were still gliding around the room. The admissions counselor had picked up a phone ad was calling for assistance. Justin was sure he could hear laughter on the other end of the line. His mother's hat had been knocked off in the melee, and she was crouching beside her chair, hair mussed, sheltering from papers that whipped overhead at great speed. Not a meter away, Justin's father was swatting at the offending papers as they came in close…

* * *

No one, it transpired, could offer an explanation for the morning's extraordinary events. After sharing a very strong cup of tea with the College's headmaster and rescheduling Justin's appointment for another day, the Finch-Fletchleys climbed into their car and drove off wordlessly. None of them seemed able to give voice to their astonishment for the entire ride home. They made small talk as they took off their coats and the housekeeper informed her mistress that the post had arrived. Eager to occupy his mind with something that he could easily understand, Justin sifted through the post casually, his sister—who had practically flown down the stairs at his arrival—hovering around him, begging for details about Eton…

_What's this?_ he thought, as he unearthed a large envelope made of what seemed to be thick, yellowish parchment. On the front, plain as day, was Justin's name, addressed in emerald-green ink.

"What's that you have there, darling?" Lady Finch-Fletchley asked warmly. Justin held it up. "A letter…for _me_." He handed it to her for closer inspection.

"Hmm…I wonder who it could be from," she mused, slitting the envelope open with a finger just as the doorbell chimed. The butler bustled forward to answer as Lady Finch-Fletchley continued to struggle with the heavy parchment. Just as she managed to extricate the mysterious letter from its envelope, she lowered it to observe a tall, prim-looking woman, whose black hair was gathered into a tight bun, being ushered in.

"Lady Finch-Fletchley?" she asked lightly before turning her gaze to the boy. "And you must be Justin. I see you've received my letter. It is a privilege to finally meet you in person at last."

Flying papers, strange letters, and now an unexpected visitor…perhaps this mysterious woman held the answers to the day's unbelievable events. One thing was for certain—one way or another, Justin was going to find out. Picking up the letter from where his mother had left it, he followed his parents and their guest into the parlor, unfolding the parchment as he walked and musing contentedly on the day's excitement.

* * *

_And there we have it! I don't know about you, but it seems to me like fate is pushing Justin in Hogwarts' direction. Although those anxieties he'd expressed while enrolling at Eton would certainly resurface when the time came to leave for Hogwarts as well...but that's a natural part of leaving home._

_Hope everyone enjoyed this update. Not sure who I'll finish next, but Charity Burbage and Helena Ravenclaw are coming along nicely._

_Until then, happy reading (and reviewing)!_

_On va se 'oir,_

_Delilah _


	49. Part of Your World

_Good morning to all my readers out there! I apologize for the obscenely long wait (though I did caution that updates would be fairly sporadic). As I mentioned in today's update to _Greed_, my wedding day is finally here! Well, not today obviously, but next Saturday! I think it's fairly safe to say that I'm a total mess, running around like a chicken without a head trying to makie sure that everything's 'just so', but I've owed you all an update for a while now and I was determined to post one today if it killed me. _

_I'd just like to thank all of you who reviewed my last chapter, "Privilege," featuring Justin Finch-Fletchley, and all those who chose to follow this story during its long absence. I'd usually list you all here, but I know you're eager to get down to the chapter, so I'll keep it brief. _

* * *

Part of Your World

"Look, Charity. Amazing, isn't it?"

Father and daughter sat, side by side on a bench, watching the passers-by with matching, thinly disguised expressions of admiration.

_Muggles_. It was incredible, really, how they did it. How they created their amazing, intriguing, incredible world…all without magic. The things they created—trains that traveled underground; boxes that allowed you to speak to someone on the other side of the world, yet still hear their voice as though they were right beside you; inexplicable sources of power that traveled through wires hidden in the walls—simply outstanding.

Many wizards were distrustful of Muggles, or at least wary of them. Charity didn't understand why. Sure, their technology—amazing as it was—required some getting used to, but other than that, they really weren't so different from wizards. Muggles had homes and families. Their children played games. They ate a lot of the same foods. They lived in houses. They were people, too, and people—once you get down to basics—are really remarkable similar.

* * *

"Daddy?"

"Yes?"

"Do Muggle children go to school, like us?"

Her father beamed down at her. Charity had been impatient to start school since she was four.

"Oh, yes, sweetheart," he replied brightly. "In fact, the Muggles have an ingenious system where their children start school very young. If you were a Muggle, my love, you'd already be in school, every day, with other children your age."

Charity pouted a little. "I want to go to school like the Muggle kids! It's not fair that I have to wait! Why can't I go to a Muggle school?"

Charity's father sighed at his daughter's pleas. "It's just not allowed, sweetheart. Don't worry, it'll be your turn someday." He indicated the nearby ice cream van and made his way over to buy her a treat that would perhaps make up for some of her disappointment, but as he walked away he distinctly heard her mutter, "I wish _I_ was a Muggle…"

Charity and her father were remarkably close. "My best girl," he'd call her, and she'd giggle and throw her arms around his neck. Charity's mother had died years ago, and she had become the center of her father's world. Her stepmother and older stepbrother doted on her; the youngest child and only girl of the family. But even though she loved her stepfamily, no one could surpass her father in Charity's heart. They were kindred spirits. No one else could understand her unseen bond with the Muggle world but him. Perhaps he understood it even better than she did.

* * *

"Daddy?"

"Hmm?"

Charity stood in the doorway, freshly scrubbed and wrapped in her clean, sweet-smelling pajamas. She watched her father from her spot in the doorway as he sat on the sofa with a steaming cup of tea. His smile beckoned her forward, and he patted the sofa beside him. She scampered across the carpet and climbed up next to him.

"What is it, darling?" asked Arnold Burbage fondly, wondering if his daughter was going to beg to be enrolled in school again. Charity cocked her head slightly to the left, evidently thinking.

"When did you get so interested in Muggles?"

Arnold sighed, his eyes acquiring the dreamy look of one deep in reminiscence. He'd been waiting for this question ever since he first introduced Charity to the wonders of the Muggle world. "I guess it's time for a bedtime story," he began. "I've been saving this story for the right time. It's a special one…"

"It was summertime, long ago. A young wizard was visiting his grandmother. He was frustrated because he wanted to be back home, spending the summer holidays with his friends, not keeping an old lady company while she charmed her own cheese and knit jumpers with dragons on them. On the beautiful summer's day our story begins, the young man was wandering through the farmer's market, picking up half a dozen plums for his dear granny, when all of a sudden, he stopped. Standing at the opposite side of the stall, squeezing oranges, was the most beautiful girl in the world."

"Who was she?" breathed Charity, eyes gleaming in appreciation of the hint of suspense, clearly riveted by her father's tale.

"An angel," he said simply. "An angel come straight from heaven. The young man froze. He couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Couldn't _think_, even. The only thought that crossed his mind was that he absolutely _had_ to find out the girl's name, because he was sure he'd die if he went away, not knowing, and never saw her again."

Charity giggled. "Daddy!" she teased, "he wouldn't _die_! That's just _stupid_!"

Her father raised his eyebrows. "Someday, when you grow up, you'll understand how he felt."

Charity looked doubtful, but pressed on. "So? What did he do? Did he talk to her?"

"Of course," replied her father. "He stood there for…hmm, must've been about ten minutes or so, trying to come up with just the right thing to say to make him seem smoothly debonair when suddenly, he found himself standing next to the oranges, with no idea how he'd gotten there. She looked up from the oranges, one still resting in her palm, and gazed at the young man who'd approached her so suddenly. She was looking at him with the most beautiful blue eyes he'd ever seen. He opened his mouth to greet her, but all that came out was 'Er…'"

"'D'you want an orange?' she asked, eyeing this strange, incoherent young man. 'Yes,' he replied, in a vague, dreamy sort of voice, 'yes, that'd be brilliant.' He secretly hated the taste of oranges, but this fact had never been less important."

"She reached her hand out towards him and somehow, he managed to take the orange from her. It was still warm from her touch. 'What's your name?' he blurted out suddenly, immediately regretting his less-than-smooth attempt at initiating conversation."

"'I'm Hope,' the girl replied with a smile. The young man smiled back—or at least, he tried to smile, but it felt like his face was working overtime just to perform that simple gesture. It must have come out looking strange, because with a polite nod, Hope turned, paid for her oranges, and walked away."

"Now, our hero was faced with a dilemma, like all good heroes are at times. The beautiful girl from the market was a Muggle, but never before had that mattered less to the young wizard, because her beauty and charm surpassed any magic he'd studied in school. Still, there was an obstacle that stood in his way of asking her out."

"What _was_ it?" asked Charity fearfully.

"He'd never really talked to a Muggle before, not _really_. He didn't know what he could say to her, what topics were off-limits, what they'd have in common. But he was determined to ask her out, so by the time he'd returned to his grandmother's house with the bag of plums, he'd formulated a plan."

"Every day, from that day on, the young wizard would wander the streets of the small town. He'd offer to do his grandmother's errands in order to find an excuse to linger in the shops and observe his grandmother's Muggle neighbors. He tried to learn as much as he could about Muggles. Sometimes, he saw Hope going about her day as well. When he did, he'd smile at her—he'd practiced his smiles in the mirror at home, trying on different ones, trying to find a smile that wouldn't frighten her—but then he'd go back to shopping. Towards the beginning of August, he'd finally worked up the courage to speak to the girl again. He took her out for lunch at a local café. They talked for hours, and the young man was surprised at how _easy_ it was to talk to her. She seemed to really understand him, and he was genuinely interested in everything she told him about her life, her family, her hobbies. The more time they spent together, the more the boy wanted to share everything about the girl's Muggle world. He became enamored of everything Muggle, because it all reminded him of her."

Charity smiled brightly. "I think she sounds wonderful! I wish I could meet her."

Her father smiled, a slightly melancholy smile. "You did, sweetheart," he said shortly. "The girl from the story was your mother."

_My mother…the girl from the story was my mother,_ thought Charity in a daze. Her mother had died several years ago, when she was only three. It had been so long that Charity sometimes secretly feared that she was starting to forget her. Eventually, her father had remarried—a kindhearted woman with a son of her own, who looked after Charity just like an older brother should—but Charity occasionally felt that she was somehow different from the other members of her family…set apart, somehow. Now she knew why.

* * *

Like her father, Charity Burbage longed to experience and understand all the mysteries of the Muggle world. Each new discovery she made brought her closer to her mother and a whole part of herself that she'd never really gotten the chance to know.

* * *

_I hope you all enjoyed today's update. I feel like little Charity may have been a little lost, searching for a part of herself she may not have been entirely aware of at first. Studying Muggles filled a void that she, at such a young age, couldn't completely identify. At least that's my (entirely fictional) interpretation, at least._

_Now I'm going to be fair and warn you that I don't know exactly when my next update will be, nor who it will feature. If you have any personal requests or chapter ideas, please feel free to mention them in your review or PM me your ideas and I'll be glad to take a shot at it. This chapter is an answer to a request for more on the pre-professional lives of the Hogwarts staff._

_I hope everyone is well and still out there reading, and I humbly ask for your reviews. Maybe as a wedding present (*says Delilah in a cunning attempt at laying it on thick*)?_

_Until next time, then,_

_Delilah_


	50. Secrets, Secrets

_Hi, everyone! I'm back, with my first chapter update as a married woman! The summer's been amazingly busy, what with the wedding and honeymoon and settling into our new home. It seems like everyone's been running around, trying to get stuff accomplished (except my cat, the lazy thing), and now school's snuck up on us again! Speaking of sneaking, today's chapter features Marietta Edgecombe-Cho Chang's friend who betrayed the DA to Umbridge in _Order of the Phoenix. _I fear she's not a very likeable kid in this chapter, but then again, she wasn't a particularly likable girl in canon, either. _

_Sorry for the long delay, but in addition to my busy summer and the start of the school year, I must confess that I seem to be running out of ideas for chapters. I have a couple that I started which stalled in the writing process and it took forever to come up with a workable chapter idea and see it through to the end. Marietta was inspired in part by one of my new students. He's a sneaky little troublemaker, too._

_Special thanks to all the reviewers who offered their thoughts on Charity Burbage's chapter, as well as all those who are still following this story!_

* * *

Secrets, Secrets

_Secrets, secrets are no fun…unless they're shared with everyone._

Ten-year-old Marietta Edgecombe leaned back surreptitiously behind the edge of the partially-closed door. The perfect angle, and she'd hear him clear as day…

_Secrets, secrets are no fun…_

Marietta was an expert in all the secretive arts. She could hold her breath for over a minute so as to avoid detection while playing hide-and-seek; she knew all the best hiding places. But it was while playing a simple game of hide-and-seek that she had discovered the _true_ excitement of hiding and seeking.

The hiding part was half of the game. She'd conceal herself behind dustbins, in closets, under beds—wherever it looked like someone was up to something.

The other part was the actual seeking. Marietta didn't seek her friends and family members. It was their _secrets_ she was after. She could unearth secrets with the practiced air of a prospector sifting for gold.

And, most importantly, she could get away. For what good was getting the goods on someone if you couldn't make off with the information?

"I can't get away with _anything_ around here!" Marietta's sister Natalie fumed at her parents one night, as she faced them like a prisoner before the bar entering her final plea. She had been caught sneaking in one of the sitting room windows late one night after her parents had received notice of her mysterious absence through none other than Marietta. "How'd she even _see_ me coming in? What was she doing, lurking in the shadows? And anyway, why aren't you punishing her? She tried to blackmail me for pocket money, and when I told her I'd spent all mine, she went prancing off to you. The only one who never gets in trouble around here is _her_! You'd better watch out, because if you reward her every time she tattles on _me_, what's to stop her from tattling on _you_?" And with that, she stormed off toward her room in a veritable huff, leaving the rest of the family trying to figure out the source of her ire, other than the obvious annoyance at not being allowed out to see her boyfriend for the next two weeks. Sixteen-year-old Natalie was the only Edgecombe to grasp the injustice of the situation, the danger of letting Marietta cultivate the skills of an extortionist.

_Secrets, secrets…_

Robert Edgecombe was used to hiding. He hid his secret business dealings from his colleagues at the bank, under cover of a 'special client'. Completely unbeknownst to his wife, he went on feathering his nest in complete and utter secrecy. But he never in a million years dreamed he'd have to go into hiding from his own precocious daughter.

…_are no fun…_

"Number five hundred and twenty-seven, Mummy," Marietta reported smugly. "That's where Daddy hid it all."

"And?" asked Madam Edgecombe breathlessly. Here at last was the moment it all came down to—at _last_, she would discover the root of her husband's sneaking around, from there, she could decide how best to use the information to her own advantage…

"Money," said Marietta simply. "Great heaps of gold! Like a buried treasure!" She looked rather sulky, put out that her father had neglected to share his secret fortune with her and in doing so, provided her with everything she ever dreamed of. From the time she was a tiny child, Marietta had always hated the idea of being left out.

…_unless they're shared with everyone._

"Well done, my dear," whispered Madam Edgecombe in her daughter's ear. "No secrets, you remember that."

She basked in the warmth of her mother's praise in complete self-satisfaction. "Of course, Mummy," she replied.

Robert Edgecombe had no idea it was coming. He left the bank early one lovely Friday, feeling especially pleased with himself after he'd been able to make a huge deposit into his secret account. Soon, he'd have enough to quit his job at the bank for good, abandon his shadier clients and run off to a life of leisure in some remote country. He trusted his plan to no one—not his wife, not his daughters, because its very success depended on his complete and utter skill at disappearing from the face of the earth. It would be better for him to simply vanish one day, and for the ones he left behind to wonder where and why.

Whistling as he rounded the corner, Robert suddenly stopped in his tracks. The door to his house stood wide open, and within he could see the dark shapes of a veritable crowd of unfamiliar witches and wizards walking around. What was going on? His senses, sharpened by his dealings in illegal activities, warned him of an ambush.

Numb with confusion and anticipation, Robert Edgecombe stepped across the threshold and into the hall. Standing side by side in the kitchen doorway, he spied his daughters. Natalie's face was a picture of utter confusion; her brows were knit, eyes slightly narrowed, lips slightly parted. When she caught sight of her father, she stepped forward in search of an answer. "Dad! What's going on? All these people from Magical Law Enforcement just showed up, out of nowhere…what are they doing here? Why are they looking for you?"

Her questions continued, rattling off at a steady pace in an unsteady and anxious voice, but Robert didn't have time to answer her. Magical Law Enforcement? _It can't be,_ he thought to himself, _there's no way they could know. I covered my tracks, double- and triple-checked…_

Still visible behind Natalie, Marietta hadn't moved from her spot in the kitchen doorway. She was watching her father with a strange expression on her face—not fear, or curiosity, or confusion, as would be expected. No, she looked…calculating. And it unnerved Robert.

His wife was seated on the sofa, in discussion with an official-looking wizard. She seemed rattled, and was toying with a damp tissue in her lap. Both looked up as Robert entered the room soundlessly, walking as slowly as if he were in a dream.

"Robert! Thank goodness! Officer Crowley from Magical Law Enforcement has his team searching the house for Merlin-knows-what; I told him that there must be some mistake, how could we be hiding thousands of Galleons of laundered money here, but he wouldn't listen! Won't you please straighten this out?

As he nodded blankly and lowered himself into a nearby chair, Robert noticed that, though her tissue was damp, his wife's eyes showed no sign that she'd been crying, and her preoccupation seemed—in his agitated state—to be just a shade or two too frantic to be genuine.

"Mr. Edgecombe? I'm Tom Crowley from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. I'm here to ask you a few questions about some funny doings down at the bank…seems a great deal of money's gone missing over the past few years, and our sources lead us to believe you may be involved. If you'd kindly come with us…"

"I'm not going anywhere!" Robert Edgecombe protested virulently. In the background, he could see Natalie's eyes welling up with tears as she faced the prospect that her beloved Daddy was a swindler and a crook. "You've got the wrong man!"

"Really, sir? Then how would you explain the regular deposits, through various channels, made to a secret account numbered five-two-seven? We've looked into the account holder, a Mr. Wallace Snidely, only to find that Mr. Snidely does not, in fact, exist, and that you yourself authorized all deposits into said account. We've also found that a very large withdrawal was made from the aforementioned account only yesterday, totaling a cool one million Galleons in assets. Would you happen to know anything about that, sir?"

though he'd been feigning shock and indignation throughout this little speech, Robert's face flushed with genuine astonishment at this last announcement. Withdrawal? He hadn't withdrawn any money…some thief had clearly gotten into his vault and stolen from him!

"What the—withdrawal—when I—" he sputtered, completely forgetting that he was supposed to be playing the part of an innocent man.

"Robert, how could you? I feel as if I don't know you anymore!" his wife wailed, burying her face in the tissue, most likely so the officers couldn't see her suspiciously dry eyes. Two officers flanked Robert Edgecombe's chair, took him firmly by the arms and led him out of his house.

"Daddy, please…tell them you didn't do it!" Natalie begged as he passed her in the hallway. "Tell them you're not a crook!" Robert could only look at her blankly, as the carefully-crafted life he'd made for himself, not to mention all his well-nourished secret plans, fell down around him.

Only Marietta remained impassive. "No more secrets, Daddy," she said in a level voice, with an odd little smirk.

And as the officers led him away in disgrace, it was then that Robert Edgecombe realized who it had been who'd discovered his secret and led him to this low place.

"That's right, darling," Mrs. Edgecombe whispered in her little daughter's ear as the law enforcement personnel cleared out of the Edgecombe house, taking her husband away with them. "We'll have no more secrets. Never again. You did very well, and Mummy'll have something very nice for you once it's safe to go for the money."

Smiling inwardly, Marietta wondered what sort of reward she'd demand for her part in this intrigue. _Sharing secrets is fun,_ she thought to herself, _but only for the right price…_

* * *

_Well, it seems like both Marietta and her mother netted some unexpected rewards out of their duplicity, and will go on believing that intrigue is an admirable thing...setting the stage for future events. But enough about them-what did you think? I can only hope that my readers are still out there and haven't abandoned me, and that you're willing to share your ideas. And please, if you have any chapter requests, send them my way, because the pace of this story-now up to fifty chapters, if I'm not mistaken-seems to be slowing now that I've covered so much ground._

_Hope everyone's well and those in school are having a productive new year._

_Delilah_


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